Jagged Little Pieces
by LindaO
Summary: The Balkans go to hell, and take most of Control's people with them. EQ fanfic mixed with excerpts from real-life accounts of the conflict. This is a brutal, violent story. Next in the Romanov AU.
1. Chapter 1

**Rated R – Readers are strongly cautioned about brutal, frequently real-life, violence. Not overly graphic, but definitely disturbing. Some strong language, not enough sex. **

**Author's Note: **

This story is the next installment of my Control/Lily A.U. I'll warn you right up front, it is possibly the darkest story I have ever written, and definitely the most difficult to write.

The difficulty has not been with the fictional characters (I do not kill any characters we really like, I promise), but with the setting. The story is set in history – in a particularly awful history. Writing about the party that surrounded the fall of the Berlin Wall was easy: Create fictional characters and stick them in a real, happy setting – no problem. Creating fictional characters and stick them in a real Hell, without trivializing the real horrors that happened to the real people, was much, much harder.

Real people died. Real people were lost and terrified, homeless and hungry, raped and tortured and murdered. Real childhoods were cut short, by death or by the experiences of survival. And real people were brave and courageous and heroic. So how could a story – and a fanfic at that – begin to do their story justice?

I thrashed around with a dozen different approaches to this story (with Paige providing wisdom and patience far, far beyond the call of duty). Eventually, I came to the conclusion that the only answer was to let them speak for themselves. So throughout this story you will find their words, in italics, taken from a number of exceptional books on the Balkan conflict written by the people who lived through it.

The rest is mostly fiction. The Cellist of Sarajevo really exists, but obviously he was never helped by Lily Romanov. The massacre at Srebrenica really took place, but Anne Keller was not the one to reveal it. That act of heroism belongs to David Rohde, a reporter for _The_ _Christian Science Monitor_, who uncovered the first hard evidence of the slaughter (with information from unnamed U.S. intelligence sources) and gave it to the world at enormous personal risk.

I tried to understand and interpret the history as well as I could. It is shameful, and also a dark commentary on our times and our news, that I started with so little knowledge of a terrible war that took place in my adult lifetime. And it is not entirely over. New graves are still being discovered. War crimes trials are ongoing at The Hague, and a number of war criminals are still at large. The ski jump that filled all our TV screens during the 1984 Olympics cannot be repaired, because it is surrounded by land mines. The young man who killed five people in a shopping center in Salt Lake City a few years ago had spent his childhood in Bosnia, fleeing with his mother from Serb forces when he was only four years old.

For any mistakes and misinformation this story might contain, I take full responsibility and apologize in advance.

**Disclaimer:** All things Equalizer belong to Universal and I'm borrowing them for entertainment purposes only; no profit is being made. Excerpts from various books have been credited appropriately (I hope) to the best of my ability. No copyright infringement is intended.

**With thanks**, as always, to Paige, my most excellent beta, brainstorming partner, and all-around brilliant friend, and to Steve, my husband, who always has a plot twist when I need one.

**Jagged Little Pieces**

_ I had a new tricycle, red and yellow and with a bell….Do you think they have destroyed my tricycle too?_

_Nedim, 5, refugee_

_I Dream of Peace – Images of war by children of former Yugoslavia_

* * *

**Now (1995)**

Robert McCall squinted up at the black dot in the sky. It grew steadily larger as it approached the lonely runway. He glanced at his watch. Four minutes before his expected rendezvous. By the time it landed and taxied, the plane's arrival would be exactly on schedule. Say what you would about the Company – and Robert frequently did – they knew how to make the planes run on time.

He looked to his left. A black van was parked next to his Jaguar. It had the extended cargo box and no windows. There was a dent in the passenger-side door, dried mud over the tires, city grime everywhere. Just another worker's van. Nothing very noticeable.

Nothing nearly as attention-grabbing as a hearse.

He looked back towards the approaching plane. A damp breeze came in off the ocean and he shivered. It was not cold. On the last true weekend of summer, the mid-day air was already hot and the humidity was climbing. The sky was oppressively hung with middling-gray clouds that would neither rain nor clear. Thunder grumbled vaguely in the distance.

No, Robert knew, it was not cold that made him shiver. He clasped his hands in front of him and waited.

The plane landed in a roar of engines and brakes and fumes, slowed to a crawl and turned back towards the tiny metal building that served as a terminal. Four men – jeans, work shirts, only their short haircuts giving away their true profession – climbed out of the van and waited beside Robert. No one spoke.

The plane stopped. The engines cut, and the field settled into an odd silence, until the sounds of waves and sea birds and traffic and the far-off city asserted themselves again. A blue-shirted attendant rolled rickety stairs out to the passenger door. Two more rolled a baggage cart to the cargo door. The four men from the van followed it.

McCall waited.

Half a dozen men in dark suits came down the front passenger stairs. Behind them, two men in uniform. Then two women, the two Robert was here to claim.

Two of the three.

He walked out to meet them. Anne Keller walked faster and threw herself weeping into his embrace. It caught McCall off guard, but he held her tightly. "There, there," he said. "Mickey's all right, isn't he?"

She nodded against his shoulder. Robert could feel her trembling. He looked up to where Lily stood, a good ten yards off.

Romanov was wearing a faded red baseball cap, with her hair shoved up under it. No, he realized, that was wrong. Her hair was short, so short that it barely peeked out from under the cap in jagged bits. As thin as she was, she looked boyish. And very, very young.

She also looked blank.

"Mickey's all right?" he repeated over Anne's head.

Lily nodded.

Annie straightened. "I'm sorry," she said. "I'm sorry, I just …"

Robert studied the woman in his arms. She was much thinner than the last time he'd seen her, and exhaustion was etched on her face. And something more than that. Some unbearable grief, something she could not carry alone. He shifted, tightened his arm around her shoulder. "Not to worry," he said warmly. "You're safe now."

The four men carried a heavy wooden box to the back of the van and slid it inside.

"The pictures," Anne said.

"What?"

"The film," she repeated, gesturing towards the van.

"Ah." Robert understood. They – likely Lily – had been afraid someone would try to take the film from them, so she'd stuffed it in with the body. "I'll get it."

He half-expected Romanov to counter his offer, but she remained silent. He squared his shoulders and walked to the back of the van as they were closing the doors. "A moment, please," he said simply.

The men shared a look. Robert didn't know any of them, but they clearly knew who he was. They stepped back, let him climb into the van beside the make-shift coffin.

McCall's hands began to shake. He did not want to do this. Did not want to undo the cargo straps and open the box and look inside. But someone had to. And he had done worse.

With grim quickness, he slipped the buckles open and pushed the lid aside.

Within the larger box was a narrower one, also covered. Beside it was a zippered black pouch. Robert grabbed it, felt the film canisters inside. Good. He didn't have to view the body at all. Take the pictures, get out. He reached the pull the lid of the outer box back on.

Then he stopped. He didn't have to view the body. But it seemed somehow cowardly not to. Lily had seen it, and likely Anne, too. Could he ask them to bear what he had turned away from? And could he break faith with the woman whose body rested in the box? Could he turn away from her corpse as too disturbing, too disgusting?

He reached for the inner coffin. The lid was nailed shut.

With a silent prayer of relief and regret, McCall closed the outer box and stepped from the van.

Anne Keller was still waiting for him, still crying silently. He put his arm out and gathered her back to his side. "Is this all of them?" he asked.

She nodded.

"Good." He did not ask, yet, what was on the film. Instead he turned and scanned the airfield. "Where's Lily gone?"

Anne shook her head. "She was just here."

"Hmm." He turned to the men with the van. "Romanov?" he called.

"Gone," one of them answered.

"All right. Drive carefully."

The man nodded solemnly, and the van pulled away.

"Do you need to go with them?" Anne asked.

"No," Robert answered. "They'll take care of it. Her. The Company is very good at dealing with the dead. Unfortunately."

Anne shuddered.

McCall longed for answers, for information. He'd been given damnably little. Control had, in his usual brusque manner, told him only that Nancy Campbell was dead and Keller and Romanov were flying home with her. That Robert was to recover Anne and her cargo – presumably the film – and await further instructions. Nothing to explain how the young courier had died, nor why the women with her were so shattered.

Naturally, nowhere in the brief conversation had the word 'please' been uttered.

And yet, Robert thought, here he was, doing exactly as Control has asked. No, not asked. Ordered.

Just like old times.

He steered Anne towards the Jaguar. Whatever had happened overseas, she was in no condition to talk about it just yet. "What you need, my dear, is a hot bath and a good meal."

"What I need," Anne said, with some strength, "is a darkroom."

Robert frowned. His instructions had not included developing the film. But then, they hadn't precluded it, either. And who the hell did Control think he was, to be issuing orders to an agent who had retired years ago? "As it happens," he answered easily, "I am able to provide all of those things." He helped her into the car, dropped the film into her lap, and closed her door.

Circling to the driver's side, Robert glanced back at the airplane. It was already being fueled for another trip to somewhere. "Wherever you are, Mickey," he whispered to the sea wind, "keep your bloody head down."

* * *

_Terrible reports and pictures are coming in from all over. Mommy and Daddy won't let me watch TV when the news is on, but you can't hide all the bad things that are happening from us children. People are worried and sad again. The blue helmets (actually, they're blue berets) have arrived in Sarajevo. We're safer now. And the "kids" [politicians] have retreated from the scene. _

_ Daddy drove me to the building on the UN peace force command. He told me that now that the blue flag is flying in Sarajevo we can hope for something better. _

_Zlata Filipovic_

_Zlata's Diary – A Child's Life in Sarajevo_

* * *

**Then**

They were up a tree the first time he saw the cat.

Mickey Kostmayer was ten feet off the ground, with his back to the trunk and his legs resting on a wide branch, and he was half-asleep. On a branch above him, Lily Romanov was sprawled face-down, her arms and legs dangling over the sides. She looked like some pale, hairless ape.

Below, something snapped softly across last year's leaves. It was maybe twenty yards off, on the far side of the trail.

Mickey sat very still. They were shielded by this summer's lush green leaves; a casual observer on the trail would never notice them. He could hear Lily breathing, the slow hiss of deep sleep. No point in waking her yet. Whatever it was, it was soft and slow. One person, maybe two. Maybe children, as soft as the footfalls were. Not a Serb patrol. Not a scavenging band of refugees. He turned his head slowly so that he could look directly down on the wide trail when they broke cover.

The sound stopped. Perhaps they had seen him. Perhaps they were only watching to be sure the trail was clear.

Kostmayer waited.

They'd been resting for most of an hour. They'd been climbing for three hours before that. There were two ways to get to the Muslim enclave of Gorazde: On the road with the UN convoys, what the locals called the Blue Road, or on foot over the mountain. The Blue Road was supposed to be safe. The Serb military and militias were supposed to allow humanitarian aid and observers safe passage. If you had blond hair and a blue helmet and the correct papers, you could generally pass that way – provided you were with a large-enough convoy. If you were a Muslim refugee, however, that option was not available. You climbed the mountain on foot, up the game train through the dense forest, you gathered what aid you could, and you carried it over the mountain again on your back.

And whether your children ate or starved depended almost completely on how often you could make the climb and how much you could carry.

The whole situation, in Mickey's view, was seriously, seriously fucked up.

It didn't help that he'd seen half a dozen other places – this war and others – where exactly the same thing had happened.

It didn't help, either, that it was a beautiful day. Early summer, warm sun, cool breeze, miles of shady trees. Absolutely breathtaking views from every mountain peak. A challenging climb, if you were doing it for pleasure. Mickey was trained and fit, with proper footwear. Except for the threat of being gunned down by roving patrols, it had been a nice hike.

But the refugees who made this climb to feed their families had none of his advantages. They were bankers and bricklayers, doctors and accountants. They wore dress shoes or sneakers or no shoes at all. Mickey could feel how killing this climb must be for them.

They had passed two unburied bodies and three shallow graves on the way up the mountain. Lily said there were more. The refugees made the journey in loose bands, helping each other when they could, but no one would leave his food to carry a dead man off this mountain.

And in the winter…

The footsteps began again.

From the brush at the far side of the trail, a tailless leopard emerged.

Not a leopard, Mickey corrected mentally. There were no leopards here. It did have the same golden-brown color, the same dark brown spots. But the thickness of its coat, with a white layer underneath, and the stump that served as its tail were giveaways. What stood on the trail, looking casually around as if he owned the place, was a Balkan lynx.

The cat turned his head easily and looked up, directly into Mickey's eyes.

For all his years of training, and for all the weapons he carried, there was something deep in Kostmayer's primal soul that screamed, 'Climb higher! Climb higher!'

He grinned, shrugging off the instinct. He didn't think the cat could climb. Or, in any case, that the cat _would_ climb. Too much fresh meat scattered around on the trail these days; no point killing your own meat. Although maybe lynx weren't scavengers. They'd glossed over local wildlife in the briefing.

The cat sat down on the trail and continued to stare at him.

"Lily," Mickey said, very quietly.

She didn't move, but her breathing changed. "What?" she answered, at exactly his volume.

"On the trail," he said, his voice reassuring her that it was all right to move.

Lily lifted her head. "Holy shit."

"Can they climb?" Mickey asked.

"Yes."

"Are they carnivores?"

"Yes."

"Do they scavenge?"

"Probably," Lily answered. "But we didn't see any evidence on the bodies that he has yet."

"Hmmm." Mickey moved his hand slowly to the butt of his gun.

Lily sat up slowly and resettled on her branch. "He's pretty."

"He's fat," Kostmayer answered. "I'm not sure that's a good thing."

The lynx stood and stretched. Then he paced slowly towards them. His feet were huge, but almost silent on the leaf litter. He never took his eyes off Mickey. He walked unhesitatingly to the base of the tree and looked straight up at him.

"Shit," Mickey breathed. He thumbed the retaining strap off his handgun.

Of course, firing a shot up here was likely to bring Serb forces down on them from all directions.

He and the cat stared at each other for ninety seconds. Then the lynx shook himself indignantly, lifted his leg, and pissed copiously on the tree trunk.

With a final shake, and without a backward glance, the lynx ambled back into the forest.

Lily began to giggle.

Kostmayer threw his head back and laughed out loud.

* * *

**Now**

Lily Romanov waited in the shade of the tin shed until the vehicles were gone. There were still people milling around, other passengers, airstrip people, but they didn't know her, so they didn't matter. When the van and the black Jaguar were out of sight down the gravel road, she stepped out of hiding and started to walk.

She didn't know exactly where she was going. Across the road, into the scrub woods, was as far as her thoughts had taken her. Away from people who knew her. Away from the cushiony leather seats of Robert's car, away from his calm and sympathetic voice, away from his comforting arms. Away from his pale green eyes …

No, those weren't McCall's eyes. They were someone else's, and he was already far away.

Further away than she could grasp.

Beyond the thin stand of trees was an empty factory. There was a chain-link fence, high and rusty. Lily scaled it easily, dropped lightly onto the broken concrete that had been the employee parking lot. Trash and leaves gathered in piles against the fence, driven by some long-ago wind. Dandelions pushed up through the cracks in the pavement and bloomed ridiculously yellow against their gray world. She bent to pick one. When was the last time she'd picked a dandelion? Years on years. She brushed her finger across the top, looked at the bright yellow pollen on her fingertip. There were explosives that color. Then she tucked her thumb under the flower's head. "Mama had a baby," she chanted softly, "and the head popped off."

She flicked her thumbnail and watched the blossom fly off the stem.

Pale green eyes. Head popped off.

Lily looked around. She couldn't stay here. Too open, too exposed. Too damn many trees. She needed to move.

She walked along the fence towards the far side, the bigger road. The air smelled of old rain and rusting metal. The broken concrete in the dull daylight, the hulking silent building to her left, the half-assed trees that would neither grow nor die. She'd been here before. Any minute another shell would come whistling down off the mountain …

She looked to her right. There was no mountain. Only flat, the river, and then the city.

A small plane buzzed onto the airfield and dropped out of sight.

Lily paused, orienting.

She couldn't very well walk back to Manhattan. She should have gone with Robert, or in the van … no. No. And why couldn't she walk home? She'd walked a hell of a lot further. And there would be no shells off the mountain. She could walk right through the middle of the vast parking lot and no mortar would fall, no sniper would fire …

She took one step towards the wide open space. Then she retreated again to the shadow of the fence.

She'd been here before. Not in the Balkans, but in Tennessee.

She wanted the sun to go down. She wanted the darkness to hide in.

She stuck close to the fence, and she began to walk.

* * *

_On July 8 we got a UN package. Humanitarian aid. Inside were 6 cans of beef, 5 cans of fish, 2 boxes of cheese, 3 kilos of detergent, 5 bars of soap, 2 kilos of sugar and 5 liters of cooking oil. All in all, a super package. But Daddy had to stand in line for four hours to get it._

_Zlata Filipovic_

_Zlata's Diary – A Child's Life in Sarajevo_

* * *

**Then**

His name was Pavle Racz. He was a small dark man of middle years and striking looks. Though he shared a table with six other men, he rarely spoke.

He was also a JNA captain.

"Ah, hell," Lily said. "Are you sure that's him?"

"I'm sure," Harley answered. "If you got the name right, he's the guy." He took a sip of his tea. It was lukewarm and pale; the leaves had probably been used three times already.

"What do we want him for?" Nancy Campbell asked.

Lily shrugged. "We just want him."

"We just work here," Mickey interpreted.

"Exactly."

They looked casually across the half-empty coffee house to where their target sat. His tea was significantly darker than theirs was. Naturally, the army officers got the best of everything.

"No play here," Gage said quietly.

"No," Romanov agreed. "We need him alone."

Kostmayer shifted. "Can we drop him in a bag?"

Lily shrugged.

"You know," Harley said, exasperated, "just a little more information would be awfully useful right about now."

"If I had it, I'd give it to you," Lily promised. "All I know is that Jason Masur wants him in New York. In one piece."

The men sighed in unison disgust.

"Isn't he Control's boss?" Nancy asked.

"He likes to think so," Mickey snarled.

"This guy must be really important, then."

"Don't bet on it," Lily answered.

The four sat in silence again. "So what do we do?" Nancy finally asked, too eagerly.

"We wait," Kostmayer pronounced.

"Just wait?"

"Yes."

"And watch," Harley added. "Catch him alone and let Lily talk to him."

"Why me?" Lily asked.

Gage raised one eyebrow. "Because he's a man. And you, angel, can talk any man into anything."

The courier shrugged. "That's true."

They sipped their tepid tea and waited.

The Serbs left an hour later. The spies lingered briefly, haggling over the check. When they reached the street, all the other officers were gone. Racz was sitting on a bench at the bus stop.

The buses had not run regularly for a year.

The agents paused on the sidewalk, milling around like their casual date was breaking up. "If they made us," Harley warned, "this could be a trap."

"One way to find out," Lily answered gamely. She walked across the street and dropped onto the bench next to him.

The officer glanced at her, then looked away. "When Tito was in charge, the buses always ran on time."

"And now they don't run at all," Lily answered.

"Did Jason send you?"

"Yes."

The man stood up, then looked back at her expectantly. "What took you so fucking long?"


	2. Chapter 2

_ The soldiers ordered us out of our house and then burned it down. After that, they took us to the train, where they ordered all the men to lie down on the ground. _

_ From the group, they chose the ones they were going to kill. They picked my uncle and a neighbor! Then they machine-gunned them to death. After that, the soldiers put the women in the front cars of the train and the men in the back. As the train started moving, they disconnected the back cars and took them men off and to the camps. I saw it all!_

_ Now I can't sleep. I try to forget, but it doesn't work. I have such difficulty feeling anything anymore._

_Alik, 13, refugee_

_I Dream of Peace – Images of war by children of former Yugoslavia_

* * *

**Then**

Anne Keller was crunched in the middle of the truck's seat, between the driver and a TV reporter. They were both large men, and though she knew their presence gave her only a false sense of security, she was glad for it.

It was the third time she'd made the trip from the border to Sarajevo, on the UN-protected highway, with a UN-protected convoy of press and humanitarian aid. The first time had been terrifying. Now it was less frightening, but far more depressing.

More buildings along the route had been destroyed. What had been a beautiful mosque the month before was now a debris-filled crater. What had been a tall, elegant office building was now two brick walls blackened by fire. The lovely trees that had lined the road were vanishing, first the lower branches, then the higher branches, then the trunks themselves. People were using them for firewood.

There was a field that had been full of sheep the first time she traveled to Sarajevo. She had marveled at how placid they seemed, how very ordinary in the middle of an extraordinary situation. Two big goats had been with them, guarding the herd from dogs and other predators. Now the sheep were gone and the goats were rotting heaps near the fence.

There was gunfire from the hills on both sides of them. Anne was glad the truck had a bad muffler; it drowned out the smaller shots and let her pretend the louder sounds weren't happening.

It would be nothing for a bullet to smash through the windshield and kill her driver. Or the reporter next to her. Or her. Accident of war. Nothing for the truck to be hit by a mortar or run over a landmine.

There were soldiers with the convoy, of course, soldiers from half a dozen countries, all in blue helmets. But they looked nervous and under-armed.

It was Friday. She'd been supposed to make the trip on Wednesday. But as she'd packed her gear in the pre-dawn, Lily Romanov had come to her door with a message. "Mickey wants you to wait until Friday."

Anne had waited. The Wednesday convoy been ambushed, gunmen on both sides of the road firing into the trucks. Six people were injured, one critically.

There hadn't been a warning this morning, so maybe they were safe.

Or maybe Mickey just couldn't get a warning out to her.

It was cheating, Anne knew, that she had special warnings, special Company protection that covered her. If the reporter next to her got shot, it might take days to get him out; if it happened to her, she was fairly sure the Company would sweep in and rescue her. All unofficial and off the books, of course, but that wouldn't make her flight home any slower. She had an unfair advantage.

Of course, if the truck hit a landmine, that advantage didn't mean much either.

False security, she mused. Like the big guys on either side of her.

But it was better than no security at all.

* * *

_Strangely enough, watching it day after day the war teaches you to get used to blood, you are forced to cope with it. After a certain point (which comes very quickly) you realize that people are dying in great numbers and bodies simply pile up like an abstract number on the surface of your mind. In order to survive, you become cruel. You are touched only if you knew the person who died, because in order to comprehend the reality of death you need to identify it, to get acquainted with it, to personalize it. Otherwise, you feel the pain but it is vague and diffuse, as if you are wearing metal armor that is too tight. _

_ What one cannot escape are images of innocence: children's faces, a puppy wandering among the charred remains of village houses, a lying dead newborn kitten in a muddy field with its little head strangely twisted, a lost shoe on a sidewalk. On Christmas Day the television reports a particularly fierce attack on the town of Karlovac, some forty kilometers from Zagreb. First the camera showed a distant view of it, with clouds of smoke and dust rising above the rooftops. Then the camera closed in on a street of half-ruined houses and of soldiers picking up a wounded person – so far, it was a fairly average war report unlikely to change the rhythm of one's pulse. Only when the camera zoomed in on a little house with two smoldering black holes for windows, did I feel as if I'd been punched in the stomach. It was a particularly fine day and the burned shell of the house stood outlined against a deep blue winter sky. A little further on, in front of the house, was a clothes line with a man's freshly washed white shirt and women's underwear on it. I could imagine a woman, only a short time ago, standing outside hanging it there. As she returned to the house the bomb fell and everything was over in an instant. The house was in ruins, the people inside had probably been killed. Yet, the shirt and underwear were dangling in a light wind, as if the woman would return at any moment to collect it – clean, dry, smelling of the north wind and distant snow-capped mountains. This was a picture of death itself. _

_Slavenka Drakulić, __The Balkan Express – Fragments from the Other Side of the War_

* * *

**Now**

On the bridge, without warning, Anne Keller said, "We got married."

McCall glanced away from traffic for a moment. "What?"

"Mickey and I. We got married. Yesterday. Two days ago."

"Oh." Robert frowned over the steering wheel. His hands were inexplicably damp. "Well … congratulations are in order, then."

"He doesn't think he's coming home, does he?"

Robert looked over at her again. She'd stopped crying. She was calm now, still. Sad. "Of course he does," he said, with great confidence. He patted her knee. "Of course he does. I think …" he paused as a red sports car cut him off "… I think it's probably just a matter of protection."

"Protection?"

"For you. These pictures …" He gestured to the bag of film in her lap. "I gather they're quite provocative." Anne nodded. "As the wife of an agent, you see, you're easier for the Company to protect. To gets its arms around, as it were."

She didn't believe him. "We got married before the pictures were taken."

Robert grimaced. It hadn't been a very good explanation, but he'd hoped it would stand for a moment or two. "He's been in love with you for a very long time."

Anne nodded. "I know. But I still feel like …" She sighed and looked out the window. "The pictures."

"We'll be there soon." Robert reached out and adjusted the car's air conditioner. He felt quite suddenly chilled to the bone.

* * *

_BOREDOM! SHOOTING! SHELLING! PEOPLE BEING KILLED! DESPAIR! HUNGER! MISERY! FEAR!_

_ That's my life! The life of an innocent eleven-year-old schoolgirl! A schoolgirl without a school, without the fun and excitement of school. A child without games, without friends, without the sun, without birds, without nature, without fruit, without chocolate or sweets, with just a little powdered milk. In short, a child without a childhood. A wartime child. I realize now that I am really living though a war, I am witnessing an ugly, disgusting war. I and thousands of other children in this town that is being destroyed, that is crying, weeping, seeking help, but getting none. God, will this ever stop, will I ever be a schoolgirl again, will I ever enjoy my childhood again? I once heard that childhood is the most wonderful time of your life. And it is. I loved it, and now an ugly war is taking it all away from me. Why? I feel sad. I feel like crying. I am crying. _

_Zlata Filipovic_

_Zlata's Diary – A Child's Life in Sarajevo_

* * *

**Then**

Lily Romanov waited in the shadows.

No one paid any attention to her. Everyone waited in the shadows now. Waited until the sniper fire subsided, or until they worked up sufficient courage to dart across the street under it. Waited until they guessed the sniper was taking a piss or lighting a cigarette, and then taking up their life with both hands and running.

While she watched, a man of middle years made the hazardous crossing with a plastic jug of water in each hand. He moved awkwardly, bent at the waist; she knew from his neighbors that he had a hernia. A simple matter to treat, in any hospital in the civilized world.

Sarajevo had long-since ceased to be part of the civilized world.

And yet, while she waited, a vision of civilization appeared: A man in a tuxedo, white tie and tails, strode from a nearby building, carrying a chair with one hand, a cello with the other.

Lily rolled up on her toes. It was too bizarre to be true, and yet there he was. The fabled Cellist of Sarajevo settled his chair in the dusty crater left by a mortar round, flipped his tails with practiced ease, and drew his cello's neck lovingly against his shoulder. He did not look around for the sniper bullets. After a moment of thought, he began to play.

The city, for as far as the sound of the strings reached, went silent. The sniper stopped.

The music rose, sad and sweet, from the crater. I know that music, Lily thought, but she could not name it. She took the small tape recorder from her coat pocket, flipped it on and held it loosely at her side.

Across the street, she saw a women creep from a side door with a small child beside her. They stopped at the edge of the shadow, and the woman crouched next to the child, hugging him and urging him to listen. The child began to cry, but his hands reached towards the cellist.

The piece ended. The cellist bowed his head for a moment, then stood, took his chair and his instrument, and went calmly back inside.

The mother and child also went inside. Another woman raced across the open street. The sniper shot at her, but the bullet plinked off the concrete a few feet behind her. Lily Romanov waited.

Two hours passed before the man, in dull gray street clothes, left his building again. He slid along the sidewalk in shadow, turned at the next corner, probably to go wait in the bread line.

Lily waited still, counting to a thousand, and then she moved. The lock on the front of the building was broken. The lock on his apartment door scarcely slowed her down. It had been a beautiful apartment once, with grand picture windows looking out over the street. The windows had long-since been shattered; plastic waved ineffectively over them. She moved along the back wall of the room into the safe hallway, then into his bedroom.

The cello stood alone in the corner of the room, alone, silent, brave. Lily reached and touched its varnished shoulder in a gentle caress. Suddenly, unexpectedly, she was weeping. She brushed at the tears, then let them fall. They seemed right.

She moved swiftly, dropped her pack onto the bed, opened the bottom compartment, and retrieved a slender white bag. Scott and Becky had given it to her at their wedding, and she had hauled it all over the God-forsaken Balkans without knowing or questioning why.

Lily slid the packet of new strings under the pillow of the Cellist. Then she smoothed the pillow down, brushing her tears from the old linen, and quickly left the apartment.

* * *

_PRAYER OF HOPE - READER 1_

_From "The Cellist of Sarajevo" by Paul Sullivan [Adapted]_

_ In May of 1992, a bakery in Sarajevo which happened to have a supply of flour was making bread and distributing it to the starving, war-shattered people. At 4 PM a long line stretched into the street. Suddenly, a shell fell directly into the middle of the line, killing 22 people outright and splattering blood and gore over the entire area._

_ A hundred yards away lived a 37-year-old man named Vedran Smailovic. Before the war he had been principal cellist of the Sarajevo Opera Company—a distinguished and civilized job. _

_ When he saw the massacre outside his window, he was pushed beyond his capacity to endure anymore. Driven by his anguish, he decided he had to take action, so did the only thing he could. He made music._

_ Every day thereafter, at 4 PM precisely, Mr. Smailovic would put on his full, formal concert attire, and walk out of his apartment into the midst of the battle raging around him. He would place a little camp stool in the middle of the bomb craters, and play a concert to the abandoned streets, while bombs dropped and bullets flew all around him._

_ Day after day, he made his courageous stand for human dignity, for civilization, for compassion, and for peace. As though protected by a divine shield, he was never hurt, though his darkest hour came when, [as he took a little walk] to stretch his legs, his cello was shelled and destroyed where he had been sitting._

_"Prayer of Hope" _

_George Van Grieken, FSC_

* * *

**Then**

When the line at the buffet table finally slowed to a trickle, Becky Baker loaded up a plate for herself and sank wearily into a chair next to her husband.

Scott was still dressed in black. The orchestra had abandoned formalwear after the third stop on the tour, both for convenience and because the dry cleaner had lost or stolen half their tuxes. Now he wore a black t-shirt and pants. He was still damp with drying sweat.

"Did you get enough to eat?" Becky worried. His plate was still half-full, which was unlike him.

"It's my second," Scott assured her. "Eat."

She took a mouthful of eggs and glanced around. The buffet was still fine. The crowd was beginning to thin as musicians and dancers and crew got their fill and headed up to their hotel rooms, either to shower or just to fall into bed. Some of the name stars would be out at fancy restaurants or clubs, of course, but most of the road company just wanted to come back to the hotel, eat and collapse. "How was the show tonight?"

"Same as always." He ran his hand through his blond hair. It was limp with sweat. "Donny broke a string."

"That's bad."

"We managed. The pit was hot as hell."

"I can tell," Becky said, playfully fanning away from her nose.

"Gee, thanks."

One of the dancers, a tiny Hispanic girl, came over and gave Becky a kiss on the cheek. "Thank you for breakfast, _chica_. It was delicious."

Becky grinned, blushing. "Get some sleep, Rosa."

"On my way."

When she was out of earshot, Scott said, "At least I smell better than her."

"She works harder than you do."

He made a face. "I'm not letting you hang with the dancers any more. They teach you bad things." But he leaned to kiss her anyhow.

"Don't you two have a room for that?" a woman asked disdainfully.

They broke from the clinch and looked behind, expecting another company member. Instead, they found Lily Romanov.

"Hey!" Scott said. He stood up to embrace her, hesitated. "I smell bad."

"So do I," Lily replied, hugging him anyhow. She turned from him and hugged Becky as well. "How've you been?"

"You look hungry," Becky said. "Let me get you a plate."

"Thanks, I'll just keep this one." Lily gestured to the plate that she'd set on the table next to them. It was loaded with food. "Your security isn't very good. They just let me wander in."

"You looked like you needed a good meal," Scott answered. "Eat."

"I like you people. You keep trying to feed me." Lily smiled and began to eat with one hand. With the other, she reached into her pocket and brought out a miniature tape recorder. "I have a musical trivia question for you."

"For me?"

"Yeah, for you." She clicked the recorder on. The tape quality was terrible, scratchy. Then the notes of a single cello began to rise from it. Even on the tiny recorder, the music's quality was obvious. "What is this?"

"It's a cello," Scott said.

Lily sighed. Then she picked up a spoon and rapped him lightly between the eyes with it. "I know it's a cello. I saw it. What's the musical piece?"

Scott listened, puzzled, and shook his head. "I've heard it, but … did you come all the way to Berlin to ask me this?"

"No. I came all the way to Berlin to get a decent meal," the spy answered, with her mouth full. "But I need to know what this is. It's driving me nuts."

The musician listened again. The music was flowing, graceful. In a minor key. Lyric. He couldn't place it. Not one of the major composers. Something odd, something curious about it. It was music with a story, somehow. He just couldn't remember what it was.

He looked around the room. Joe Bradley, the concertmaster, was just getting up. "Hey, Joe. Can you listen to this?"

Bradley came over. He looked at Lily curiously for a moment, then remembered where he'd seen her before. "You're Scott's step-mother, right?" he said by way of greeting.

Lily smiled easily. "No, unfortunately we called it off."

"Oh. I'm sorry to hear that." His eyes lit up.

Scott winced. If his friend only knew. "Joe, what's this piece of music?" He took the recorder and rewound the tape.

"Sounds like crap," Bradley said.

"It was all I had," Lily apologized.

Bradley eyed her again, and Scott could see the violinist seeing past the beautiful woman now, to the fact that she was thin and ragged and fairly dirty.

Then the music caught his attention. "Oooh," he said slowly. "That."

"I know I've heard it before," Lily said. "But I can't remember where."

Bradley nodded. "Sure. Space: 1999." They looked at him blankly. "The TV show?" He sighed. "Sci-fi is lost on the young. It's Albinoni."

Scott slapped the table. "That's it. The Dresden piece. "

"The what?" Becky asked.

"The library in Dresden was bombed during World War II," Lily explained. "They found pieces of this music, scattered." She nodded in satisfaction. "That's it."

"'Adagio in G Minor,'" Bradley supplied. "What's so important about it?"

Lily stuffed a small link sausage into her mouth and chewed swiftly as she tucked her little cassette recorder away. Then she brought out a folded newspaper clipping and handed it to Scott. "Here," she said. "Thanks for breakfast. And the strings."

She picked up two more sausages with her bare fingers and was gone before they could protest.

Gingerly, Scott unfolded the paper and the three of them bent over the story of the Cellist of Sarajevo.

* * *

**Now**

Control's secretary answered the phone on the second ring. "Webster Expediting."

"It's Romanov," Lily said. "Is he there?"

"He's out of town," Sue answered promptly. "He's expected back tomorrow morning."

There was a moment of silence. The secretary could hear traffic in the background, heavy trucks and speeding cars. Then the courier said, "Okay. Thanks."

"Where are y…"

The phone was already dead. As she put it down, it rang again in her hand. She snatched it up. "Web…"

"It's me," Control barked. "Have you heard from Romanov?"

Sue shook her head. It was creepy, the way he did that, and he did it all the time. "She just called."

"Where is she?"

"She didn't say. And she hung up on me."

There was an instant of pause, in which the secretary could picture Control's eyes going too narrow, too hard. "What about McCall?"

"Not a word."

An exasperate sigh. "All right," he said gruffly. "If Romanov calls again, get a location."

"Yes, sir."

The phone went dead again.

* * *

_Again there is no electricity, no water, and wild snipers are aiming at workers who have come to repair the broken cables. Next to the electrical power station, at the fountain, a woman was killed while she tried to fill her buckets. In the parks people lop green branches by the hundreds off the trees. Looking out my window, I saw a man, well groomed and wearing a neatly ironed white shirt, bend down to pick up a cigarette butt that had lain there God knows how long. I can imagine what he must have felt like as our eyes met; for a moment, his hand hovered over the butt before he picked it up. _

_ Everybody is talking about next winter, that it is approaching, slowly but steadily. Despair envelops the city since, apparently, there is no way out of this madness. At the hospital, a thirteen-year-old girl who had lost her right arm and left hand tried to commit suicide. She didn't succeed – not this time. _

_Zlatko Dizdarević_

_Savajevo – A War Journal_

* * *

**Now**

McCall was outside his apartment building, trolling for a parking spot, when his phone rang. He scowled and snapped it up. "McCall."

"You have the women?"

Robert's scowl deepened. "Ah, Control, so nice to hear from you," he said with openly false cheerfulness. "I'm fine, thanks for asking, and you?"

"Robert."

"Anne's with me. We have the film. We're going upstairs to develop it now."

He waited, half-expecting Control to order him not to. It would just make doing it that much sweeter. But after a beat, the spymaster said, "Good. Pick out the best few."

"And then what?" Robert wondered.

"I'm working on something," Control answered vaguely. "I'll let you know."

"I am not going to suppress these pictures for you, Control."

Control chuckled. "If I needed them suppressed, old son, I wouldn't have sent you to pick them up. Where's Lily?"

"She left us at the airstrip."

There was another beat. "I'll call in two hours," Control said briskly. "Don't do anything until then."

"I shall wait patiently by my phone," Robert answered dryly.

"Robert? Stay sharp."

McCall's eyes narrowed. He wondered what Control had gotten him into, and how deeply. "I always do."

He put down the phone and looked over at Anne. "Well."

"He's going to try to bury them, isn't he?"

"The pictures?" A spot miraculously opened and Robert gunned the Jaguar into it. "No. As he so rightly pointed out, if he was, he wouldn't have sent me."

Anne sighed and hugged the bag of film against her chest. "Oh, Robert …" she began shakily.

"Shhh," McCall soothed. He had the very strong feeling that he didn't really want to know what was on that film. But that wasn't an option. "Let's go inside."


	3. Chapter 3

_ This morning a man told me, "From my window I saw a heartrending scene. My neighbor was killed by a sniper bullet. For several days we tried in vain to take his body to a cemetery. Finally, we had to bury him in front of a building. His friends made a coffin out of a kitchen table and a wooden sign. They managed to bury him, under sniper fire…."_

_Zlatko Dizdarević_

_Savajevo – A War Journal_

* * *

**Then**

Lily Romanov adjusted her loose jacket again. No matter how she wiggled, the bullet-proof vest underneath itched. It was probably psychological.

"Are we ready yet?" Stock asked companionably over her radio.

"Nah," Mickey answered. "The girl's still getting dressed."

"Women!" Stock snorted.

"Kiss my ass," Lily murmured in the general direction of her pick-up mic.

"Tempting," Stock answered immediately. "When and where?"

Lily sighed. "I love you, Stock, but I don't think you could handle it." She looked out of the shadows towards the warehouse. Half the damn city was in a perpetual black-out, but here, on this street, the lights stayed on. There was a street lamp right over the door. She wondered who had been bribed and how much.

On the other side of the street, at a dark window, a sniper waited.

Mickey said he knew which window. But there was no way to know for sure – except one. "I think I'm ready," she sighed.

There was a five-second pause. Then Kostmayer said quietly, "Good to go."

Stock immediately answered, "Go here."

Lily took a deep breath. "You know, if he takes the head shot …"

"He hasn't so far," Mickey answered.

"Yeah. I know."

They'd been watching the sniper for two days. He shot for the heart, consistently. And accurately.

"Going," Lily announced. She stepped out of the shadow and slid along the front of the building. She moved slowly, looking around as if she expected an attack. Everybody knew about this warehouse. Make the sniper believe she thought he'd taken the night off. Let herself be tense, but not not not look up towards the windows where she knew the sniper probably was.

She made it all the way to the door without incident. Maybe he really _had_ taken the night off.

Lily turned her back to the possible sniper to study the lock on the door. It was just a basic padlock, big and clumsy. She reached into her jacket pocket for her picks. Get it open and get out of sight before the bastard came b-

The bullet caught her in the center of her back and slammed her face-first into the door.

"Fuck!" she said as the impact forced all the air from her lungs. She crumpled and lay absolutely still on the pavement.

"You okay?" Kostmayer asked from her radio.

"Don't know," Lily muttered. She couldn't catch her breath enough to form real words. But the fact that she could talk at all probably meant that she wasn't fatally wounded. Probably. Her back hurt like hell in a radiant circle around the hit. She couldn't tell if the bullet had gone through or not. "Get him?"

"I got him," Mickey assured her. "Give him a minute to stick his head up."

That was part of his pattern, too. He'd get one shot off, then duck down below the window. He was patient, waiting three or four minutes before he came back up to check his kill.

"You got him, Stocky?" Mickey asked.

"Third from the left, second from the top," Stock answered promptly.

"That's the one. Hang on, Lil. We'll get him."

Lily tried to lay still. Her back hurt. Her front hurt. Her nose was bleeding; she could feel the warmth dripping down her face. The damn door was still locked, the lock swinging tauntingly above her. And to the north, the refugee camp was silent.

The children had stopped crying two days ago.

She kept her eyes closed and waited.

It hurt to breath. As the pain in her back faded, she could feel the broken ribs – and there was no doubt they were broken – begin to scream. What the hell? Then she remembered the door handle, a slender steel pull. She'd crunched against it when she got hit.

"Fuck," she said again.

"Wait," Mickey murmured.

Lily's lungs felt heavy, full. She wondered if her ribs had punctured her lungs. She wanted to cough. But the sniper thought she was dead, and dead people did not cough. To cough now was to invite him to take the head shot to finish her off …

… but she couldn't help it, she was drowning …

"Wait," Mickey said again.

Be still, Lily told herself. Be still, be still, and live.

…she couldn't breathe, she had to cough …

Be still.

And then above her two rifles cracked with only a sliver of silence between them. There was a grunt, and then the sniper's body thudded to the pavement five feet from hers.

Lily rolled to her knees and coughed. It hurt like a bitch. She was still on her knees, clutching her ribs, wheezing, when her companions reached her.

"You want some help up?" Kostmayer asked.

"Give me a minute."

Stock stepped around her and opened the lock. Then he stooped and gathered her picks for her. "Nice work."

Romanov sat back on her heels. "You, too."

She looked towards the gate. A handful of refugees had begun to gather there, curious and hopeful. Lily nodded. Stock went over and opened the gate's lock, too.

Mickey helped Lily to her feet and steadied her. "Your nose is bleeding," he observed, handing her a dirty bandana.

"My ribs are smashed to hell," Lily answered. But upright, she was breathing a little better.

Kostmayer threw the warehouse door open as Stock returned. "We're going to get in so much trouble for this."

"Yeah," Lily agreed. She put her hand on Mickey's shoulder and they moved off slowly, stepping over the dead sniper and ignoring the growing crowd of refugees that began to plunder the warehouse behind them.

* * *

_ Our own tiresome sniper, we call him "Jovo," was in a playful mood today. He's really out of his mind. There he goes! He just fired another bullet, to shake us up._

_Zlata Filipovic_

_Zlata's Diary – A Child's Life in Sarajevo_

* * *

**Then**

Lily had her back to the door, but she could tell when Control entered the room just by the way Walker's voice faltered, even before he said, "Sir?"

She glanced over her shoulder. Her ribs ached at the twisting movement, but she kept it off her face, she thought. Beside her, Simms rose to his feet. "Something you need, sir?"

"Something you need," Control answered evenly. "Someone else to go back to Belgrade. Miss Romanov will be staying home for a few weeks."

"Why?" Walker demanded. "We've got …"

Control strode behind the desk. With a glance, he both silenced the lieutenant and moved him out of his own chair. He sat down, sat back, clasped his hands behind his head, the very picture of casual conversation. "Tell him why."

Lily licked her lips. "Why?"

"How many broken ribs do you have, Miss Romanov?"

She let out a slow breath with a soft curse. "Five."

Control nodded.

"You didn't tell us you were injured," Simms said.

"It didn't seem important," Romanov answered. "I can still work."

The men both looked back at Control. He studied her for a moment, then sat forward, put his elbows on the desk. "Tell us about the warehouse," he said.

Simms said, "I gave you the report, Control."

"I read the report, James," Control answered, still without a snap. "And it was somehow incomplete." He continued to stare at Lily.

She didn't want to look at him, and she couldn't look away. She had hoped she could get in and out without him knowing. He was supposed to be in Washington. It had been a stupid hope. The man knew everything, always.

And he was pissed.

Lily sat up straighter, trying to ease the suddenly sharper pain in her half-healed ribs. "We got a tip that the warehouse was a weapons cache. We went to check it out, secure it if necessary. There was a sniper in a building to the north. We could not approach the warehouse entry."

"No rear door?" Walker asked.

"It backed up the river. We didn't have a boat available."

He nodded. "I see."

"Go on," Control prompted.

"We decided to neutralize the sniper, as per procedure," she continued. "Kostmayer got a good position on him, and I acted as a decoy to draw him out."

"You put on a vest and went out into the firing range," Control interpreted. His voice was just discernibly frosty.

"Yes. He popped up, and Mickey shot him."

"After he got a shot off."

"Well … yes." Lily stirred. "But not a good shot."

"It hit you," Control observed dryly.

"It hit the vest. It knocked me against the door handle. No big deal."

He raised one elegant eyebrow. "It would have been a damn big deal if he'd taken the head shot."

Lily looked at the desktop. "But he didn't."

Simms stirred uneasily. "So you got into the warehouse. What about the weapons? It's not in the report."

"There were no weapons," Control predicted.

"There were no weapons," Lily confirmed. "The tip was bad."

"So you secured the warehouse and left the area," Control continued.

Lily hesitated. He already knew. There was no point in lying. "We … may have neglected to lock the door behind us."

Control nodded slowly. "And the warehouse was subsequently looted by inhabitants of a nearby refugee camp."

She blinked innocently. "Was it? That's unfortunate. But really not our problem."

"What was in the warehouse?" Walker asked. "If it wasn't weapons, what was it?"

"Food," Lily answered. "The warehouse turned out to be food storage for one of the NGO relief organizations."

"And the NGO is now screaming bloody murder to their favorite senators because you left the door unlocked," Control snarled. "And the senators are screaming at the DCI, who is screaming at me."

Lily considered. At least she knew now how he'd found out. "When we confirmed there were no weapons, we thought it best to vacate the area immediately." She nodded to herself. "Besides, I think the lock was busted."

Control looked at Walker and then at Simms. "Do you understand what they did?"

Simms nodded slowly. "They broke into the wrong warehouse, then left it unsecured. It's a screw-up, sure, but I don't see …"

"They broke into the right warehouse," Control interrupted. "They never expected to find weapons there. Though if pressed I'm sure the whole pack of them can provide the name of their informant. They knew the warehouse was full of food. So did the sniper. So they risked her life," he gestured sharply at Lily, "to draw fire, they took out a sniper, they broke the lock, and they left the relief supplies to be looted. I know _what _they did," he snarled. "What I want to know is why."

He stared at Lily. The others stared at her, too. After a long moment she sat up straighter. "The houses around the refugee camp. They heard children crying. All night, every night, children crying. They complained to the U.N. soldiers that the crying kept them awake. And then it stopped."

Simms leaned forward. "The children stopped crying? Why?"

Control stood up and went behind the chair, gripped the back in both hands. "They were too weak to cry," he said flatly.

"They were starving to death," Lily said, equally flat. "The warehouse was full of food, and the children were starving to death."

"Why?" Simms asked.

"They were the wrong religion," Lily said. "The NGO wouldn't feed them."

"There are channels for addressing those issues," Control snarled.

"It would have taken weeks. They would have starved in days."

"So you took it on yourselves to correct the situation," Control said.

Lily shifted again. "We thought there were weapons in the warehouse," she repeated firmly.

"We do _not_ use Company assets for humanitarian missions," Control snapped. "Do you understand that? You are _not_ going to get your pretty little head blown off because you don't like some NGO's distribution policies. Is that clear?"

She sat very still. "So next time we should just let them die?"

There was silence. Simms glanced at Walker, waiting for the explosion. It never came.

Control released the chair back and straightened. "Next time," he said, very precisely, "you advise me, and trust that I will address the situation."

There was an even longer silence. "Agreed," she finally said, very quietly.

"Good." He considered her for a moment. "Stay home until Medical clears you." He dismissed her with a shake of his head, turned his attention fully to Simms. "What word are we getting from Gdansk?"

Lily stood and walked out very quietly, without looking back.

* * *

_This is the worst memory in my heart …I wouldn't want anyone to experience it. The women and children are being taken away by force to the detention camp. I can't get the picture out of my head because I've experienced it myself. _

_Mario, 13, from Dubrovnik_

_I Dream of Peace – Images of war by children of former Yugoslavia_

* * *

**Now**

They'd laid over outside Berlin for several hours, long enough for Lily to have what was left of her hair treated for lice. It was easy there, on base; they were used to seeing shady people coming back from the war zone with parasite infestations.

"What the hell did you cut this with?" the med tech had asked while she combed Lily's hair for nits.

"It itched," Romanov had answered simply.

"I bet."

That had been the end of the conversation. Lily had thrown on a baseball cap from the lost and found and gone back to the airstrip.

Now, as she walked out of the warehouse district with no destination in mind, she came to a dismal strip mall. A laundromat, a bar, a convenience store with bars in the windows, a check-cashing place with even heavier bars. And a beauty salon. The sign in the window said they were having a five dollar sale. Walk-ins welcome.

Lily walked in.

The three beauticians were lounging in front of a fan, smoking and sweating in the steamy little salon. "Help you?" the largest of them said.

"My boyfriend's kid," Lily said, taking her hat off.

"Holy shit."

"Yeah." She sighed. "Can you fix it?"

"Your hair or the kid?"

"The hair," Lily said wearily. "I'm ditching the boyfriend if he doesn't fix the kid."

"He won't." The woman lumbered to her feet, gestured to the wash sink. "I tell you what, a man will _never_ side with you against his own kid, no matter what the little brat does."

"Yeah," another beautician said. She was so skinny her collar bones stuck out. "And God forbid you should ever lay a hand on the little bastard."

"All I did was yell at her and he had a fit," Lily moaned. She leaned back, moaned again as the hot spray hit her head. "I'm goin' out drinking tonight."

The ladies started talking, about drinking, about men. Lily let them run, speaking only as often as she needed to. It was soothing to hear their voices. Soothing to have firm, quick hands working through her hair. The beautician cut quite a lot off the left side; Lily had twisted it before she'd cut it, and the knife had left a sharp angle. She raised her eyes to the mirror. It was going to be _really_ short.

She let her eyes fall to the floor again. She didn't care. She just wanted to walk down the street without attracting attention. And to listen, just for a few minutes, to simple, good-natured gossip.

* * *

**Then**

Mark O'Donnell was holding a crap hand, trying to bluff with a pair of sixes, when he died.

They were in a house in Sarajevo, he and his team, still header by Ted Roelen. Kostmayer was with them, and Jimmy. They were waiting for supplies and orders. Romanov was coming in from Berlin. Chances were good she'd have Nancy with her.

They had scavenged for food first, found three dusty jars of cherry preserves in the cellar, scarfed them down on some of the relief bread, brewed tea from leaves that had already been used too often. Then they settled in to wait over a few friendly rounds of poker.

Sniper fire sounded from the mountain, with an occasional ricochet or window breaking. The men paid no attention. Sniper fire was a fact of life in Sarajevo. The front of the house had been peppered with bullets. But they were in the back room, on the side away from the mountain, and the gunfire did not concern them.

Mark said, "I'll raise you …" and then he froze. He had his cards in one hand, a stack of chips in the other. The chips fell first, and then the cards and then Mark leaned slowly forward and his head sank gracefully to the table.

The men with him complained, kidded him. Urged him to sit up and place his bet like a man.

Then they saw the hole in the wall behind him.

Then they saw the hole in his back.

It had been a blind shot, through a broken window, through two plaster walls, through the heart of a young agent.

* * *

_I was almost positive the war would stop, but today … Today a shell fell on the park in front of my house, the park where I used to play and sit with my girlfriends. A lot of people were hurt. From what I hear Jaca, Jaca's mother, Selma, Nina, our neighbor Dado and who knows how many other people who happened to be there were wounded. Dado, Jaca and her mother have come home from the hospital, Selma lost a kidney but I don't know how she is, because she's still in the hospital. AND NINA IS DEAD. A piece of shrapnel lodged in her brain and she died. She was such a sweet, nice little girl. We went to kindergarten together, and we used to play together in the park. Is it possible I'll never see Nina again? Nina, an innocent eleven-year-old little girl – the victim of a stupid war. I feel sad. I cry and wonder why? She didn't do anything. A disgusting war has destroyed a young child's life. Nina, I'll always remember you as a wonderful little girl. _

_Zlata Filipovic_

_Zlata's Diary – A Child's Life in Sarajevo_

* * *

**Then**

The black limousine pulled up just as they were bringing the coffin out of the plane's cargo hold.

Nancy Campbell barely noticed it. She was watching the coffin, hoping they wouldn't drop it on the way to the van. There were only four men – shouldn't there be six? – but they were strong, confident. They moved quickly.

Mark hadn't really been a very big man.

"Nancy."

The courier twirled and looked up into the narrow blue eyes of her boss' boss. "C-Control."

"You can ride back to the city with me." He put his hand on her shoulder. His fingers were long, gentle, but soothing in their strength.

"I – I can't."

He raised one eyebrow.

"I'm going back with the plane," she explained. "As soon as it's refueled."

Control shook his head. "No. You need to take some time off, Nancy. I know you and Mark were close. Give yourself a little time to process what's happened."

As much as she liked his touch at the moment, Nancy made herself pull away from it. "What happened was that Mark was killed. And the people that killed him are still over there, and still killing people. I'm going back."

He studied her for a long moment, not trying to disguise that he was judging her. Campbell was very aware that it was a close call. If he said no, she was going back to the city with him, in his car or in his trunk. If he believed that she could continue, she could be back in Sarajevo by the next day.

The work mattered. The information, the equipment that she carried, it was important. It was more important than sitting in her lovely little apartment crying her eyes out because the man she loved had died in a stupid poker game.

If she could work, she wouldn't have to grieve. At least not yet.

Control said, "You can't hide from it forever, Nancy."

She jumped, startled by his intuition. Was she that transparent, or were all agents the same? But she took a deep breath and shrugged. "I can hide for a while," she answered.

He hesitated a moment more, his blue eyes piercing through her as if he could see all her thoughts, all her feelings. Then he nodded and gestured to the car. His driver walked over with a fat envelope. "Get this to Romanov," he said, putting it in her hands.

It felt like cash. It probably was. There had been a time when carrying a two-inch stack of bills would have alarmed her. Now it was an ordinary occurrence. She tucked the money into her pack. "Thank you."

Control touched her shoulder again. "Be safe," he said. Then he turned and strode back to his car.

The van pulled out of the parking lot, and the limo followed.

Nancy Campbell walked slowly, dry-eyed, back to the plane.

* * *

_'I'd just picked up my daughter Ivana from her kindergarten and as I walked across the street near my house, on the opposite side I noticed this woman. She was ordinary looking, blonde, middle-aged and overweight. She was carrying two plastic bags with some food. It was late afternoon and I imagined she was heading home from her job in the city. When she was about to cross the street a grenade hit her directly from somewhere above. First she was lifted in the air – for a moment it looked as if she was flying – then she landed at my feet. She lay there motionless with blood coming from what seemed to me like a thousand holes all over her body. I looked at my daughter. She stood there, with her eyes open wide with horror. She didn't look at me, she didn't move or say anything and when I took her in my arms, she was rigid, as if frozen. The next day we left.'_

_Slavenka Drakulić, __The Balkan Express – Fragments from the Other Side of the War_

* * *

**Now**

It was crowded in the little darkroom, but Anne had asked him to stay. McCall stuffed himself as far back in the corner as he could. She didn't need his help; Anne Keller had been a professional photographer years before Robert met her. But she did need his company. Whatever was on the film, and in her memories, the young woman could not bear to be alone with it.

It was the least Robert could do.

He wanted very much to ask about Mickey and about their shotgun wedding. But Anne was tight-lipped, intent on her work. It would have to wait.

There had been thirteen rolls of film in the zippered bag. Each canister was neatly labeled in permanent marker on the lid. The one Anne Keller had chosen to develop first was marked simply with a big black X.

When the proof sheet went into the last bath, she finally spoke. "What did Control say about these?"

"That we should wait to hear from him. But he did promise he wouldn't try to suppress them. Which means, of course, that they serve his own purpose, somehow."

Anne released a long, shaky breath and switched on the white light. "Well."

"May I?" Robert asked gently.

She nodded, stepped back. Robert picked up a glass and reluctantly, curiously, leaned over the proof sheet.

It took three frames for him to realize exactly what he was looking at. He straightened, looked away. "Good Lord."

"Mickey said …" Her voice faltered; Anne paused, then began again. "Mickey said he could get me the most important pictures of my career. But that I'd never sleep through the night again. I thought …" She had to stop again. "I've been to combat zones, Robert. I've seen … a lot of things. A lot of horrible things. But this was … this was …"

She stopped again, but stood up straighter. Now that the pictures were actually in front of her, she was coming to terms with what they were. They were indeed horrible. They were also, indeed, important.

She's coming back to herself, Robert thought, and nodded approvingly.

He understood other things as well. Control knew full well what was on the film; he had promised not to suppress the pictures. Yet he had used non-official means of ensuring their safety. So the release of the pictures would not be an official act of any government entity. It would not be sanctioned.

And no doubt there would be portions of the government that would try to stop their release.

There had been stories of a massacre. Unconfirmed reports, dismissed as hysterical, as war-mongering, as mere rumor. As fictional justification for a politically unpopular NATO action. On Anne Keller's film was the proof, unmistakable, undeniable.

"Srebrenica," he murmured. Resolutely he picked up the glass again.

"There were so many of them," Anne said quietly. "They just stacked them like … like lumber. All these people, like they were nothing."

Robert nodded. He boxed up his horror and shoved it into a dark corner of his mind. When Control called, he would want the pictures that would make the most impact. The two or three most easy to understand.

Likely, the ones that would appear on the front page of every leading newspaper in the world tomorrow morning.

And once they were out, politicians and bureaucrats could deny everything until they were blue in the face. It would make no difference. The truth, once it was known, could not be unknown.

Control was, by championing these photographs, putting his own very firm hand on the entire peace process.

Robert resented, for an instant, that Control had put _him_ in the middle of it, again, without either consulting or advising him. If they kicked down the door in search of these pictures, it would be Robert, not Control, who would face them with a gun in his hand.

But if he had known, he would have agreed without hesitation. And damn Control for knowing that, too.

"They'd been looking," Anne said. "All of them, for weeks, for the grave site. All the stories – they didn't want to believe them, but they had the satellite shots, they went and they looked and they found them." She gestured to the proof sheet. "The smell, Robert. It's been so hot, even in the trees. And the faces. They were …and old men, Robert, grandfathers, and boys, little boys." She shook her head. "In Ireland, I saw children killed, but it wasn't like this. It wasn't … it shouldn't make a difference, a man sets a bomb and doesn't care who it kills, it's not less horrible, but to just shoot a child, to look at him and shoot him … they must be some kind of monsters."

McCall shook his head. "That is the true horror, my dear. That they're just men. Monsters would be easy to comprehend. But men, who were boys once, who have children of their own at home, that _men_ can do something like this … that is the horror, indeed."

He had scanned to the last row on the sheet. He stopped suddenly and looked at Anne.

"I'm sorry," she said, her hands open. "Don't look at those. Don't. I didn't mean to … Lily yelled and I turned and just kept … clicking … I didn't want to, but I couldn't stop." She was tearful again. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry."

Robert gathered her in his arms again. "No, no, now stop. Don't blame yourself, love. I know. I know."

Anne began to cry in earnest. But it was a good cry, a cleansing cry that was the first steps towards healing. Robert held her closely, glad that she could cry. Glad that he could comfort her.

Over her shoulder, he looked at the tiny prints that recorded the last minutes of a young agent's life.


	4. Chapter 4

_ If you only knew how it feels to have your father in the war. You flee the misery, but misery follows. You hear not a word about your father, and one day everything goes black and there is Daddy at the door. He stays with you a few days and then happiness is gone again._

_ My heart, it is pounding like a little clock. I can hardly write this because my beloved Daddy is once again not here with me._

_Zana, 12, refugee from Brcko_

_I Dream of Peace – Images of war by children of former Yugoslavia_

**Then**

Lily Romanov dozed lightly. Her toes were in the surf, and her body – except for a few small areas covered by a minimal black bikini – was toasting in the Florida sun. She was not getting brown; she had slathered herself with heavy sunscreen, anticipating her return to the war zone. Nobody in Sarajevo had a tan these days. But the sun baked her anyhow, the warmth soaking into her very bones, calming her deeply in a way nothing else could.

She had a paperback on the sand beside her, dog-eared and gritty, a water bottle full of beer, her towel, flip-flops, portable phone. Up the beach, a radio blared static-filled pop songs and a group of bare-chested sailors played football noisily. They were beautiful men, hard-bodied, glistening, and they played every afternoon to impress her and the gaggle of girls up the beach. Lily watched them sometimes, but today her eyes were closed behind her sunglasses.

The pain in her ribs was mainly gone, as long as she didn't move too suddenly or twist too far. She credited the sun baking as much as the passage of time. Warm sun, plentiful food, Mexican beer. No one shooting at her.

She was on her last day of leave. Medical had already signed her release. Tomorrow she would fly back to New York, and then back to the cold and bloody mountains of Europe. Away from the constant lullaby of the surf, to the nerve-jangling bouts of gun and mortar fire.

She sighed and wriggled her toes deeper in the wet sand. The waves lapped at her ankles.

The only consolation was that perhaps, perhaps, she would get to spend a few hours with her lover in New York.

Perhaps.

He had not spoken to her since that day in Walker's office. He was busy, of course. But he was also pissed. There was nothing Lily could do about that.

Still, she hoped he wouldn't let her leave again without some word, even in anger.

Her phone rang.

Lily frowned at it. It was brand-new, Company issued, weighed two-thirds less than her last one had, and cost a thousand dollars, retail. It didn't work in half the places she'd been in the States, and not at all overseas.

It rang twice more. She was on sick leave. She didn't have to answer it, and she didn't. After the third ring it stopped. Lily began to count to herself, wiggling her feet with each second. One-Sarajevo, Two-Sarajevo, Three - …

She was at thirteen when the phone rang again. Lily grinned and picked it up. "What?"

"No alcoholic beverages allowed on the beach," Control said sternly.

With her free hand, Lily picked up her water bottle and drank deeply. "It's just water."

"It's Corona, and it's your third. I thought you were injured."

Lily sat up but resisted the urge to look around. "I'm all better."

"Good."

"Where are you?"

"Close enough to know your nose is sunburned."

Her pulse raced. As casually as she could, Lily looked back towards her cottage. The blinds were closed. They hadn't been when she left. "Oh."

She turned off the phone and quickly gathered her things.

The football sailors yelled to her as she trotted up the beach, but she only waved to them and went on. Here, she thought. How could he be here? The risks were so high …

… let him worry about the risks. Trust that he had been careful. Trust that …

… could he stay the day? Could he stay the night? The long weekend? Asking way too much …

Lily stopped with her hand on the door of the cabin. All the years she had been with this man, and he still made her heart flutter like a hummingbird. If he could only stay an hour, it didn't matter. He was here.

She went into the cabin, locked the door behind her and leaned on it.

Control sat at the battered linoleum table, leaning back, his long legs stretched out in front of him. His tie and jacket were gone, his collar undone, the slender fingers of his right hand wrapped around the neck of her last bottle of beer. He looked her up and down, not bothering to conceal the lascivious intent in his blue-gray eyes.

The little cabin was silent, the air still. The soft scent of heated suntan lotion drifted off her skin.

Control lifted the bottle and took a long pull on his beer. Then he put it on the table, without taking his eyes off the woman. "Well?"

Lily took a deep breath. "If I get any closer, you're going to leave here reeking of coconut."

He spread his hands. "That's a chance I'll have to take."

She grinned slowly, dropped her gear at her side, and covered the space between them in four long strides. Control was on his feet when she got there. She'd never been able to catch how he moved that fast, and it didn't matter, he was here, she was here, she was all but naked in his arms, and their lips came together as if it was both the first time and the millionth.

When she could bear to pull her mouth away from his, she murmured, "What are you doing here?"

"Haven't seen you for months," Control muttered back, untying the back of her bikini top. "Thought we could talk. Have dinner or something." His hand slid gently across her well-oiled, mostly-mended ribs and upward to cup her bare breast.

"Or something," Lily breathed in agreement, and then they were moving as one towards the bed.

The sun set, the sweat dried on their bodies, and the cabin filled with a cool onshore breeze. Control sat half-way up to reach the blanket and covered their entwined bodies.

Lily stirred, drowsy. She rolled over too quickly; the motion caught her and she gasped in pain.

"I thought you were better," Control said quietly as she settled back.

"I am better. You should have seen me before."

"I did. That's why you're here."

She nestled against him. "Yes, but why are _you_ here?"

"I would have thought that was obvious."

"Ah," she said, amused. "Just the sex, then. There are willing women in New York, you know."

"I know," Control agreed. "But they aren't you." He rolled up onto his elbow and looked at her. His eyes were serious and tender all at once. "I couldn't stand it. I couldn't stay there, knowing you were here with some football-throwing squids watching that glorious body of yours, knowing you were where you most love to be and I couldn't be here with you. I couldn't. Not for one more day."

Lily drew his face down and kissed him tenderly. They could afford to be tender now, with the most urgent of their passion spent. "You were careful?"

He smirked. "I'm always careful."

"I know." She brushed his cheek and then his forehead, smoothing the lines of displeasure away. "I know. But I worry about you."

Control's eyes narrowed. He rolled away, onto his back beside her. "You worry about me. That's rich."

"Beloved …"

"Mark O'Donnell is dead," he announced brusquely.

Lily rolled onto her side – more carefully this time – to look at him. "What happened?"

"Sniper," Control answered tightly. "He was playing cards in what should have been a safe house. The bullet came through the wall."

She sighed and put her head down on his chest. "He was a nice kid."

"He could have been you." He brought his hand to her head, stroked her hair gently, possessively.

They were silent for a long time.

Lily said, very quietly, "I'm sorry. I know you don't understand."

"I understand everything, Lily. That's the real horror of it." His hand strayed down her back, to the invisible place where the sniper's bullet had hit her. "I understand that you know what it is to be too hungry to cry. That you couldn't let other children suffer the same way. Even if it cost you your life." His hand paused, then stroked her warm skin again. "And I understand that if it happens again, you'll do the same thing. And the only way I can stop you, the only way I can protect you …." He stopped again, kissed the top of her head. "Just promise me you'll remember they're not the only ones who need you."

She lifted her head and looked into his eyes. "I won't," she whispered.

Control pushed a strand of hair back from her eyes. "Whatever you need to do, Lily. If you promise you'll be careful, you promise you'll come back to me … whatever you need to do, I'll cover you. Understand?"

"Thank you." Her eyes brimmed with tears.

"But don't make me regret it."

Lily caught his lips again with hers, and with the gentleness of time, they made love again.

Half-way to dawn, as the tide turned, he showered and dressed in clean clothes and left the silent cabin.

Lily threw on her shorts and a t-shirt and walked across the dark cold sand to watch the water again.

**Now**

Romanov bought herself a Coke from the vending machine outside the laundromat. It was one of the old kind, with the tall narrow door and real glass bottles inside. She popped the top and slugged down a third of the bottle, relishing the carbonated edge slashing through the dust in her throat. She considered going into the store for cigarettes.

A man came out of the store with a six-pack sized paper bag under his arm. "Hey," he said, slowing as he approached her.

Lily eyed him back. Maybe forty, Hispanic, jeans, very clean white polo, gray canvas jacket, dusty work boots. He was cleaner than she was. "Hey," she answered neutrally.

The man looked around. "You, uh, you waiting for something?"

"My boyfriend's picking me up."

"Oh." He nodded, then looked around again. "He late?"

Lily shrugged. "So what else is new?"

"Hard to get a ride out here. Can I drop you somewhere?"

She considered him again. The jacket intrigued her. It had to be over eighty degrees out, and he was sweating under it. Only one reason to wear a jacket like that. The same reason she had for wearing one. "You headed out past the docks?"

"To the ferry? Sure. Why not?"

"It's not out of your way?"

"No. Huh-uh." He gestured towards a small beat-up Dodge. The windows were all down; no air conditioner. "Hop in."

Lily took another long swig of her Coke and got into the car.

The inside of the car was absolutely clean. Not a personal item of any kind in sight. Even the trash bag was empty.

He pulled out of the parking lot and headed towards the river. "So, your boyfriend makes you wait all the time, huh?"

"You have no idea."

"You live around here?"

"Do you?"

The man looked over at her. "Uh, yeah. Up that way a ways." He gestured vaguely with one hand. "Got a little place. Nothing fancy, but it's okay."

Lily looked out the window, drank her Coke, and smiled. Through the haze of the day, through as lost as she felt, this was solid and familiar ground. She knew exactly where she was, for the first time in a long time.

She nodded, "Yeah, I been to that safe house."

The car swerved, then straightened. "Pothole," the driver explained lamely. "I … what?"

Lily smiled at him. "Safe house. Up the road. I've been there. The upstairs toilet backs up every third time you flush it."

The man formed a protest, then just dropped it and grinned. "What gave me away?"

"Car's too clean," Lily said. "Obviously you have to turn it back in. And the jacket."

He shifted, revealing his gun in a hip holster on his left side. "I'm sweatin' my ass off," he admitted. He glanced over at her again. "So, uh, who do you work for?"

"Big Brother."

"Oh." He thought about that for a moment. Then he decided to take the chance. "And, uh … are you off this weekend?"

They rounded a corner and the river appeared beside the road. Lily shook her head. "I'm working," she said, with just enough regret. "You can drop me off at the corner."

"Okay." He slowed the car, turned into the ferry parking lot. "Can I get your number, maybe call you some time?"

The car stopped. Lily slid out, closed the door, and leaned through the open window. "You're cute," she said. "And I appreciate the ride. But it's probably better if you forget you even saw me."

His dark eyes narrowed. He couldn't tell if she was serious or just brushing him off. But he shrugged anyhow. "Have it your way."

"I usually do." She flashed him a bright smile and stepped back from the car.

The battered Dodge pulled away. Lily looked towards the ferry dock, where two dozen people milled around. Then she looked up at the sun. It was sliding west, but still too high, too hot.

She'd been out in the light too long. She wanted it to be dark.

She walked again, not towards the ticket book, but to the maintenance building, with its weed-shrouded walls and comfortable shadows.

_ We have learned that one of our friends has been viciously murdered, simply because he was our colleague. A paramedic was killed while trying to get across town to help someone whose life depended on his care. Meanwhile, busloads of children and the doctors accompanying them were being held as bargaining chips in negotiations for the release of seven terrorists from Ilidza. In the end, the exchange took place. It has come to seem quite normal and natural, this simultaneous release of a group of panic-stricken children who were trying to escape from hell, and seven criminals who have been showering mortar shells on those same children and their parents. _

_Zlatko Dizdarević_

_Savajevo – A War Journal_

**Then**

The farmhouse looked empty, but Kostmayer and Stock approached it carefully anyhow. They stayed in cover and moved around to the east side, then darted across the narrow yard and up onto the porch, ducking below the window.

No one shot at them.

Cautiously encouraged, Kostmayer reached only his arm around the doorframe and pushed the wooden door open.

Still no shots fire. He did a quick peek and retreated. Shook his head to Stock, who was on the other side of the doorway. Nothing.

Stock brought his handgun down to waist level and darted inside. Almost immediately, he called, "Clear."

Mickey ducked in. The living room was cold and bare. The furniture was smashed, and only the cushions and stuffing remained. All the wood was gone.

The men moved quickly, clearing the hallway, the tiny bathroom, a ransacked bedroom, and finally moving into the kitchen.

The old man was sitting in a hard wooden chair, very close to the old wood stove. The fire was long out. The old man was leaning back. He had a book in his lap, black leather, probably a Bible. On top of the book his two boney hands held a small china cup. It had probably been full of weak tea, but now only a tiny dark puddle of liquid remained. His eyes were closed as if he were merely napping. But the shrunken tightness of the skin on his face told them he'd been dead for a week or more.

"Ah, shit," Stock said softly.

Kostmayer sighed. He moved past the man and opened the cupboards. There was an old cocoa tin with no lid, half-full of paraffin. There were two ancient cook books. There were more cups, old mismatched mugs and plates and bowls. There were toothpicks. There was not a single thing to eat.

Old age. Starvation. Hypothermia. Despair. They had all ganged up on the lonely old man, and he'd sat down with his Bible and his tea and gracefully surrendered.

Mickey shook his head. He looked out the kitchen window. There was a small yard, with what had been flower beds and lush grass, years ago. To the north was a small barn and a fenced pasture. At the back of the yard stood a gazebo with an old-fashioned porch swing, both gray with age. And past them was a spectacular view of the valley below.

"We should bury him," Mickey said quietly, without looking at the corpse again.

"I suppose," Stock agreed. "Doesn't look like he has any family to find him."

Kostmayer smirked. "That, too. But check out this view."

Stock joined him at the window and whistled softly. "That's the main road down there."

"Yep. We cut down three or four trees right at the edge there, we get a perfect snapshot of everything that comes and goes."

Jacob nodded thoughtfully. "I don't think the old man will mind."

"No. I don't think so." Mickey brought out his radio and thumbed it on. The dial lit up. "We get a good strong signal here." Satisfied, he turned it off.

They looked in the basement for shovels, but found only a small one for coal. The coal bin was completely empty; even the dust had been swept up. But the coal-burning furnace still looked as if it would work. "We could burn wood in it," Stock said.

"Yeah. Let's get the body out first, though," Mickey answered. "Maybe in the barn."

They left the house and started across the little yard. As the back door slammed behind them, something banged in the barn. Three sharp raps.

The men instinctively ducked and drew their weapons. They were closer to the barn than the house; they ran for cover beside the building.

The banging repeated. It did not sound like gunfight. More like someone hitting the wooden walls, hard, with some object.

Someone trying to get out.

The banging stopped and there was a low nicker.

The men looked at each other, surprised and relieved. Then with caution they went through the small door into the barn.

The horse nickered again, urgently. She was, they quickly verified, the only living creature left in the barn. She was in a big box stall, brown and anxious and very bony. The stall was filthy; there was no food in evidence, and the water bucket was absolutely dry.

"What the hell," Mickey said under his breath.

Stock reached in and patted the anxious horse. "We need to get her some water," he said.

"There's a rain barrel up by the house," Kostmayer answered. He reached over the stall door and grabbed the water bucket. "I'll get it."

He crossed the yard again, testing the ground beneath his feet. It had been warmer the past two days; the ground was a little less frozen. Of course, that would only be the first few inches. Still, better than nothing. He looked around. Under that tree, overlooking the valley? Pretty, but the roots would be a bitch. He looked to the other side of the yard. Low brush, still with a great view. That would be easier to dig.

There was a thin skin of ice on the rain barrel, but it cracked easily. He dunked the bucket and headed back.

Stock had brought the horse out to the pasture. She was nibbling the short brown grass anxiously, but she kept stopping to look towards him. More thirsty than hungry. He wasn't surprised. The old man must not have planned on dying, or he wouldn't have left her locked up.

He handed the bucket over the fence to Stock. The mare immediately crowded against him, trying to get to it. Stock pushed the bucket back over the fence. "Are you crazy?"

"What?" Mickey protested. "She's thirsty."

"I know," Stock answered. "And if you give her all that water she'll drink it all down and drop dead."

Kostmayer said, "Oh."

The mare was leaning on the fence, trying to push it down, whinnying, desperate for the water she could smell but not quite reach.

Kostmayer said, "Oh," again. He looked around, but couldn't find anything smaller. He didn't want to dump the water out; no telling when it would rain again.

The horse was frantic.

He set the bucket down away from the fence, pushed up his sleeves, plunged both hands into the icy water, and cupped up what he could for the horse to drink. She slurped the trickling water eagerly and then licked his palms, looking for more.

"Good," Stock said. "You do that. I'll find another bucket or something."

"Do you know how freaking cold this water is?" Kostmayer complained, bending to scoop up another handful of water.

Jacob grinned. "You're a hell of a guy, Mickey."

"Yeah, yeah." His partner went into the barn. Kostmayer grinned crookedly at the horse. "Wait'll I tell him he gets to clean your stall."

_ The weather is growing very cold now. No longer can you hear the singing of the birds, only the sound of the children crying for a lost mother or father, a brother or a sister._

_ We are children without a country and without hope. _

_Dunja, 14, from Belgrade_

_I Dream of Peace – Images of war by children of former Yugoslavia_

**Then**

The dining room of the Holiday Inn was crowded with reporters. They were talking, sometimes interviewing each other on camera. It was too damn dangerous, this morning, to try interviews on the street. The snipers were out.

The coffee, for a change, tasted like coffee.

Anne Keller lingered a long while over her breakfast, because there was nothing else to do. Finally, bored with her fellow journalists, she decided to go back to her room and see if there was any hot water. Or any water at all.

Of course, there was not enough electricity to run the elevators. She headed wearily for the stairs.

Inside the stairwell, a woman said, "Took you long enough."

Anne whirled. Lily Romanov was there, sitting on the steps. From her posture, she'd been there a while.

"Sorry," Anne said, a little breathless. "Didn't know you were waiting for me. Is Mickey all right?"

"He's fine," Lily assured her. "Wanna go see him?"

"Am I allowed?"

"Well, we didn't really ask permission." Lily started up the stairs. "Let's get your gear. If things go right, you can stay the weekend."

"I shouldn't ask where, should I?"

The spy glanced over her shoulder and shook her head. "Just don't get your hopes up for any romance. Unless you're willing to go _al fresco_."

Anne had stuck her nose outside that morning. It was about twenty degrees out. "I think I went to school with him."

"With Al Fresco?" Lily countered. "Yeah. He gets around."

In her hotel room, Anne grabbed her parka and gloves and a change of clothes. "Cameras?" she asked.

Lily frowned. "Maybe one. Small one. Expect to have the pictures censured. This isn't a working trip, for you."

"Then what is it?"

"A visit to your boyfriend."

They made their way out of the city on foot, through the woods and into the mountains. Anne was aware that they were passing very close to the Serbian forces, but Lily seemed unconcerned. They moved quietly, walking for about an hour. Then Romanov stopped and sat on a boulder at the side of the trail. "Sit, rest," she invited. She rubbed her side ruefully.

Anne sank wearily onto the rock beside her. "Are we walking all the way?" she asked. She was willing, but she wasn't looking forward to it.

"No," Lily promised. "There's a truck just over that hill. If it starts. It usually does."

Keller looked up. The sun was bright, the sky brilliant blue. Not a single cloud to hold the warmth. By night fall it would be frigid. "Why are we waiting?" she asked curiously.

"To see if anyone followed us," Lily answered easily.

"Oh.'"

Romanov brought a water bottle out of her coat and offered Anne some. "So how've you been?"

"Okay," Anne answered, handing the bottle back. "I got three front pages and a Newsweek cover so far this year."

"That's great." Lily drank deeply, then put the bottle away. "No trouble getting in and out of the city?"

"Not so far. We … a group of us got together and uh, befriended one of the military commanders at the other end."

Lily grinned. "I bet I know just the one. He's a good guy, mostly, but he's worried about the size of his pension." She shrugged. "He'll keep you as safe as anybody."

"That's very reassuring."

Lily stood up. "Let's go find a truck."

They drove for nearly an hour, up the mountain. At times the road was flat and smooth, paved. At others it had been bombed into dirt. There were two places where the truck slowed to a crawl and Anne grabbed the door handle, sure they were going to stall out and roll back down the mountain right into the city. But Romanov remained unconcerned. Anne gathered she made this drive often.

In the middle of no where, they pulled off the road. "Now what?" Anne asked, clambering on shaky legs out of the truck.

"Now we hide the truck," Lily said logically. She grabbed the trunk of an evergreen branch from the side of the clearing and expertly flipped the greenery over the truck. Anne joined her, and in a matter of minutes the vehicle had mostly disappeared. Lily ducked under the branches and brought a big mountaineering pack out of the back. When she had it slung on her shoulders, she brought out two shoulder bags and carried them at her sides, the straps crossed across her chest.

Again she paused and rubbed her ribs.

"Do you want me to carry something?" Anne asked.

"Sure," Lily said, and handed her a much smaller pack. Then she started across the clearing and into the trees. If she was injured, it didn't show in the pace she set.

Fifteen minutes of climbing brought them to a narrow road at the crest of the mountain. Just across it was a small farmhouse with a small barn. A very skinny brown horse was grazing forlornly on the stubble of grass in the yard.

"Is she loose?" Anne asked as she followed Lily across the yard. She could see where the pasture fence had been broken down.

"Hmm? Oh, the horse. Yeah. We were hoping she'd run off and find food on her own, but no luck. She won't bother you."

The mare lifted her head and gazed at them listlessly, then returned to rooting for grass.

Mickey Kostmayer came out onto the porch. "Took you long enough."

"Nice to see you, too," Lily grumbled. She pushed past him into the house and closed the door gently behind her.

Mickey grinned, strode down the steps and took Anne in his arms. "Hey, stranger. Welcome to Dead Man's House."

"What a charming name," Anne answered. She kissed him, at first hesitantly and then more deeply. "Do I even want to know why you call it that?"

"Probably not." He kissed her again, and then again. He smelled like a man who'd been living in the woods for a long time. But he also smelled familiar and wonderful.

They sank onto the bare front steps and kissed some more. It had been months since they'd been together. The stubble on his cheeks scratched hers. "_Al fresco_," Anne murmured.

"Hmmm," Mickey murmured against her lips. "Kinda cold."

"Yeah."

"We could hike out to the truck."

Anne thought about it. He ran his hand up her back, under her coat, and she shivered. "I love you, Mickey …"

"But you're freezing your ass off."

"Um … yeah."

He chuckled. "Good. Me, too. I mean, not that I'm not willing, if you were really interested …"

"Oh, sure, make it all my fault."

Kostmayer climbed to his feet, dragged her with him. "Come on inside. I'll give you the grand tour."


	5. Chapter 5

_If I were President, _

_The tanks would be playhouses for the kids._

_Boxes of candy would fall from the sky._

_The mortars would fire balloons._

_And the guns would blossom with flowers. _

_All the world's children_

_Would sleep in a peace unbroken_

_By alerts or by shooting._

_The refugees would return to their villages._

_And we would start anew._

_Roberto, 10, from Pula_

_I Dream of Peace – Images of war by children of former Yugoslavia_

* * *

**Now**

Father Nick Kostmayer was dripping sweat by the time he'd heard his last confession for the day. He stepped out of the box, tugging at his collar. He was sinfully grateful there hadn't been many parishioners today; the holiday weekend had begun. There'd be a lot more next week, with a lot more to confess. Hopefully it would be cooler. The confessional felt like a sweatbox.

The sanctuary wasn't much cooler. Nick walked slowly to the back of the church and out onto the steps, praying for a stray breeze.

When he saw the boy on the sidewalk in front of the church, he immediately assumed the child was a runaway. Too young, too beautiful a boy to have been on the streets long, in spite of his ragged clothes. His mind immediately began to list the social service agencies that might be able to help him get a safe bed for the night.

It was only as he moved down the steps that he began to think he recognized the boy.

And it wasn't until she said, "Hello, Nick," that he realized the boy was Lily Romanov.

"Lily?" Nick blurted, half a question.

The woman was standing on the sidewalk with her hands in the pockets of her thin jacket. Her feet were apart, her weight balanced in a manner that immediately reminded Nick of his brother Mickey. If she noted the heat that still shimmered off the street she didn't show it. She might have been standing there a minute or an hour. Her face was thin and stark white under the fluorescent streetlamp; her head was bare, her hair brutally short.

He walked down the remaining steps to the sidewalk. His instinct was to reach for her, but her expression warned him off. Her eyes were flat, distant; again, much like Mickey. "How are you?"

She shrugged. "Okay. You?"

Nick took a chance and touched her arm. "Come inside. I'll get you something cool to drink."

Lily's eyes moved to the front door of the church. As Nick watched, she scanned upwards, past the rose-shaped window to the roof, up the steeple to the cross high overhead. She contemplated the holy symbol without expression, then looked back at Nick. "No. Thank you."

A breeze ruffled the trash against the building, and the woman shuddered as if it were cold. Nick moved closer, trying to shelter her body with his. The summer heat could not touch her; Lily Romanov was wrapped in the bleak cold of the soul. "God still loves you," Nick said quietly, "even when you're angry with Him."

Lily stared at him. Their faces were barely inches apart. The impulse to kiss her flitted across the priest's mind. It wasn't a sensual desire, only an intense need to reach her somehow. Even anger would have been better in those eyes than the blank deadness he saw. Dead pain, so deep it was unbearable. Nick wanted to look away. But to do so would be to abandon her to her despair. He could not be so faithless.

Belatedly, a sharp fear ran through him. "Has something happened to Mickey?"

The woman shook her head. "Not as far as I know. He's okay."

Father Nick studied her for a long moment. It wasn't that her eyes were so dead, he realized. It was that they had long since become accustomed to being dead. Her cropped hair, her wan face, her clothes, worn, thin, and with the faint scent of days and nights on the street. "And you?" he asked.

She barely tipped her head in askance.

"You're not okay," Nick continued.

Gently, Lily stepped away from his touch.

"I don't know what's happened to you," Nick called after her, "but you need to come in and let someone help you."

The woman almost smiled. Her gaze panned up to the cross again. "Mama had a baby," she chanted under her breath. Then she looked back at Nick. Her meaning was perfectly clear. Not even God could help her now.

She turned and walked away.

"Lily, please …" Nick called after her.

The woman turned the corner and was gone.

* * *

**Then**

The front room of the cabin was empty except for piles of gear. The bedroom had a big mirror from the back of a dresser. It sat on the floor, alone. There was nothing else except dust.

The bathroom was tiny and grimy. There was a bucket of rain water next to the toilet, with a ladle, for token flushing.

The only room that was warm, and therefore habitable, was the kitchen. The table was gone, burned before the old man died. There were two old wooden chairs to one side of the old wood stove, too sturdy to be broken easily into kindling. On the other side, on the floor, was the mattress off the bed and the cushions off the destroyed couch, heaped with blankets and sleeping bags.

When Anne Keller arrived, there were three men – Kostmayer, Sterno, and Jacob Stock – manning the post. They took shifts, two inside warm and rested, one on the gazebo in back, watching the road below.

As the sun started to set, they all ate lightly from the supplies Lily had hauled in. Anne understood that the food needed to last a while, and more acutely, that every bite had to come in on someone's shoulders. She didn't mind; she'd had a huge breakfast. But she understood now why Mickey seemed lean, why his whole body was hard to the touch. Lily, too, had dropped some weight that she really couldn't afford to lose. Even Sterno, who Annie remembered as being quite stout, was visibly thinner.

Bad enough they were getting shot at, she thought, without their having to starve, too.

But nobody complained.

After dinner and a quick clean-up, Mickey took a shift on the gazebo. Anne went with him, wrapped in her coat, and they sat and talked and watched the quiet road fade into darkness. "This is it?" she finally asked. "This is all you do up here?"

"This is it," he answered. "I spend a whole lot of time sitting on my ass watching things."

"In between the running and the shooting, of course," Anne said quietly, smiling.

"Well, yeah."

They were quiet for a time, watching the sun set magnificently orange over the far mountain. For a moment or two they forgot the war and just enjoyed the beauty of the countryside and each other's company.

"I think about you," Mickey said. "When I'm just sitting like this, watching. I think about you a lot."

Anne smiled knowingly. "Clean or dirty?"

"Some of both," he admitted. "The thing is …" He stopped and gazed toward the horizon for a long moment.

It was unlike him to be so careful with his words. Anne slid closer to him and squeezed his hand. "Mickey?"

He grimaced. "The thing is, I've been in some fucked-up places, all over the world. I've seen people turn on their neighbors, I've seen them slit throats over a water well. But I've never seen anything like this. Not where it was so wide-spread, not when it lasted so long. This place is …" Mickey shook his head. "I know you know. I know you've got the pictures to prove it. But the places you can't get to, the stuff you don't see …"

"Mickey, what's wrong?"

He rubbed his hand over his face. "I don't know, Annie. I'm the original tough guy, right? Get in, get it done, get out. Don't get involved with the locals. But these people. The ones that are bad are so _fucking_ bad, and the ones that are still good … they try so hard, Annie. They're so good, they're so decent, and they deserve so much better than we're doing."

"I don't understand."

Mickey looked at her. Then he kissed her knuckles. "Don't worry about it. Neither do I. I just … I sat here last night, looked at the sunset just like this, and all I could think of, in this hellhole of a place, was that I wished you were here."

"Oh." Touched beyond words, she nestled her head against his shoulder. His coat was cold; she didn't care. "Oh."

He chuckled. "So I dragged you out of your warm safe hotel up here to this bucolic splendor." He gestured to the house. "Where you can sleep on the kitchen floor with people you don't even know."

Anne turned her face up and kissed his cheek. "It doesn't matter. I wouldn't have missed this sunset for anything."

* * *

_There are lots of beautiful pedigree dogs roaming the streets. Their owners probably had to let them go because they couldn't feed them anymore. Sad. Yesterday I watched a cocker spaniel cross the bridge, not knowing which way to go. He was lost. He wanted to go forward, but then he stopped, turned around and looked back. He was probably looking for his master. Who knows whether his master is still alive? Even animals suffer here. Even they aren't spared by the war. _

_Zlata Filipovic_

_Zlata's Diary – A Child's Life in Sarajevo_

* * *

**Then**

They slept on the floor together, all five of them. As a guest of honor, Anne was assigned what she was assured was the best spot, on the mattress between Lily and Mickey. The other men slept back-to-back on the couch cushions. Anne would have preferred that, she thought, with just Mickey. But she understood that that would have left Lily with the two men …

As soon as the sun was fully down, she understood that gender had absolutely no role in the sleeping arrangement. In the middle of the mattress was the best spot because she got body heat from both sides.

Though they kept the stove burning, the kitchen was drafty and cold. The wind howled up the mountainside and through the gaps in the old windows, under the door and up through the floorboards. They had stuffed pine branches under the make-shift beds, but it didn't seem to help much. They had tried, Mickey told her, to use the coal stove in the basement, but it barely warmed the drafty house at all.

They wore all their clothes, covered up with all their blankets, and shivered into restless sleep.

Somewhere in the darkness, a woman screamed.

Mickey was moving before Anne was fully awake. "Stay here," he hissed in the darkness, in a voice that would not be defied.

"But what …" Anne asked.

Lily put her arms around her. "Shhh."

The other men were moving, too. The back door opened, blasting cold air into the kitchen. Another scream. Scuffling beyond the yard, something large. A wolf howled. A dog yelped. The woman screamed.

"There's a woman out there," Anne whispered, huddled with Lily under the blankets.

"It's the horse," Lily assured her.

"What?"

"Shhh."

They listened in the frozen darkness. Running feet, shouting. Snarling, and the horse whinnying frantically. A single gunshot, a small gun. More shouting, more neighing. A dog barked repeatedly; another howled. Two more gunshots, and then silence.

After ten seconds, Lily slid out from under the covers. Anne followed her. In the pitch black, Lily held her hand and they crept towards the door.

"Lil?" Kostmayer called softly. "Bring the lights."

As if his voice had broken a trance, Lily suddenly moved at normal speed. She snapped on a flashlight and handed it to Anne, then scooped up three more and left the house.

Anne was careful to stay right behind here across the frozen lawn. The moon was only half-full, but the sky was so clear that even the stars added light. There was no danger now. The men were standing in the pasture, just through where they'd broken down the fence. The mare was lying on the ground, her ribs heaving in panic and pain. Her breath billowed in steamy clouds in the night air.

Anne shown the flashlight's beam on the horse. In better light, she could see the bloody wound on the horse's neck. Another on her flank. Both were just bites; they would heal. But the mare's belly was torn open as well. Her intestines trailed like a thin white snake onto the ground. Her hooves waved vaguely, but she did not try to stand up.

Kostmayer took one of Lily's lights and aimed it down the pasture. Just beyond the fence, a pile of shapes jumped and scuffled.

"Wolves?" Anne asked quietly.

"Dogs," Mickey answered. "Feral pack."

"We got a couple of them," Sterno said sadly. "That's what they're eating now."

At their feet, the mare wheezed. Her eyes were wide and wild. She still made no effort to stand.

Stock still had his .22 in his hand. He knelt next to the mare and stroked her muzzle softly. Then he stood up and shot her.

There was silence, broken only by the snarling scuffling of the dogs beyond the fence.

Anne turned her flashlight off.

Kostmayer said, "Shit."

Stock turned away, looking pointedly towards the woods.

"Hell of a big hole to dig," Sterno pointed out.

Lily said, "Somebody get me a big knife."

* * *

_We stayed five months at my grandmother's house. There was quite a lot of shelling, air raids, and general alerts. So many buildings were burned down, and every house was hit by at least one shell. _

_ Mak and I slept on the floor, and mother and father on a couch. We had little to eat, only rice, spaghetti, and sometimes beans. We didn't have any other vegetables, only one tomato cut in three pieces for Mak, Deni and me…._

_Lana, 8, from Sarajevo_

_I Dream of Peace – Images of war by children of former Yugoslavia_

* * *

**Then**

Sunday afternoon, Teddy Roelen showed up at the cabin with his team to replace the watchmen. There was a big steel pot simmering on the stove. "What's this?"

"Horse," Lily replied briefly.

"Oh."

"The meat's in the bottom. It's way too tough to eat. But the broth is pretty good. And good for you."

He peered into the pot. It was only half full. The liquid was deep brown, and the steam smelled delicious. "Oh," he said again.

His team shuffled in from stowing their gear and reached for bowls without question.

* * *

**Now**

After a careful, sorrowful review of the proofs, McCall and Keller settled on three to print. One was a long shot, an overview that hinted at the size of the killing field. Another was closer, showing a dozen bodies in a drab stack. The third was a close-up of a single man's face.

The most dramatic of the photos, the one of the decapitated boy, was too graphic for the press.

"Control will be calling soon," Robert said. "Will you be all right in here?"

Anne nodded. She had slipped back into the safety of her professional skin. Robert nodded his approval. He had done the same.

He left the darkroom, walked to his living room, and poured himself a stiff drink. When it was down the hatch, every last drop, he allowed himself to think again.

Matters in the Balkans were coming to a head. The Serbs had been taking territory aggressively. The UN peacekeepers were largely powerless to stop them without NATO forces to back them up. The international community authorized limited air strikes; the Serbs promised retreat and restraint, then continued their aggression as soon as the planes were over the horizon. The threats of the Western powers continued largely hollow; they had no stomach for a new war, particularly in mountainous terrain their armies were ill-equipped for. But the rumors of genocide continued, ever louder, and the civilized world was hard-pressed to continue to ignore that.

Now Control had pictures, hard, visceral evidence of the mass slaughter the Serbs denied and the world wanted to ignore. With the release of the pictures, he would change the entire dynamic of the situation. World leaders could not turn their backs and claim they didn't know, once the pictures were out.

McCall understood now why Control had drafted him into this particular mission. He resented it, but he also understood that it was an honor, in a way only he and Control could understand it.

He sent up a terse prayer for the safety of Mickey Kostmayer and the others still in the war zone. And another for the sanity of those who had come home.

Where the hell was Romanov?

The phone rang, startling him. He let it ring twice more while he refilled his glass. "McCall."

"Control. How are the pictures?"

"Gruesome. Shocking. Exactly what you hoped for."

"Not what I hoped for, Robert. Only what I expected. I need you to pick three …"

"For the press," McCall finished. "Yes, yes. We're working on that now."

"Good." There was a pause. "Then I need one more favor, old son."

"Where and when do you want them delivered?"

"There's a cemetery where we met once. The old one."

They had met in dozens of cemeteries, over the years, but Robert knew exactly the one he meant. "I remember."

"Seven o'clock. Just you. They'll look for your car."

McCall nodded to himself. "I don't imagine this press release has been sanctioned higher up the line."

"It's not even sanctioned by me, Robert. I don't know anything about it."

"Of course. Of course." McCall took a long drink. "Will Romanov be there?"

There was a brief pause. "She's not with you?"

"She left us at the airstrip. I told you that already."

"She probably went home."

"I'll check on her," Robert mused aloud, "after my meeting."

There was another pause. "Why?"

"Because I've seen the pictures, Control." Without waiting for a response, he hung up the phone.

* * *

_There are no trees to blossom and no birds, because the war has destroyed them as well. There is no sound of birds twittering in springtime. There aren't even any pigeons – the symbol of Sarajevo. No noisy children, no games. Even the children no longer seem like children. They've had their childhood taken away from them, and without that they can't be children. It's as if Sarajevo is slowly dying, disappearing. Life is disappearing. So how can I feel spring, when spring is something that awakens life, and here there is no life, here everything seems to have died. _

_Zlata Filipovic_

_Zlata's Diary – A Child's Life in Sarajevo_

* * *

**Then**

The best café in Sarajevo was open again. Their supplies were meager, their food was limited and bland, but at least it was hot. Harley Gage had just stuck his fork into his gravy-laden meat when Lily Romanov dropped into the chair across from him.

"Hi there," Harley said. "Hungry?"

"Where's Mickey?"

"It's real meat. It's good. If you don't ask too many questions …"

"Where's Mickey?" Lily snapped. Her tone and her manner both said she was in a hurry.

"He's upstairs," Harley answered. The courier popped to her feet. "Annie's with him," he continued quickly.

She dropped into the chair again. "Damn."

"What do you need, kid?"

"I need him to cover my ass."

"And what am I, chopped liver?" Harley protested. "I can cover your ass as well as he can. And maybe better, because I'm more familiar with it."

Romanov considered him for a long moment. Then she stood up. "Fine. Come with me."

"Hey, I just got this plate. You know how long it's been since I've seen real meat? Whatever you're up to, it'll wait until I'm done."

"No, it won't." Lily strode out of the café.

"Wait … just wait a minute," Gage called after her. She didn't even slow down. "I'm not going to … I'm not following you. I'm hungry!" Then he stood up, threw down his napkin, and trotted after her.

By the time he caught up with her she was at the end of the block. "Whoa, whoa. Can you at least tell me where we're going?"

She pointed to a building ahead on their right.

"What, to see the Russian? That'll wait until I eat my dinner."

"No," Lily said again, "it won't." She glanced around, then crossed the street diagonally.

"Come on, Romanov, give me a little hint here."

"Little hint?" She paused long enough to push the street door open and enter the narrow stairway. "Keep your gun handy and your mouth shut."

"Okay." He followed her up the stairs. "How about a bigger hint?"

She was silent up two more flights of stairs. At the top was a simple wooden door, with a dull brass number 6 on it. Harley knew, as he was sure Lily did, that the apartment served as the office for the station chief of Russian intelligence.

He also knew, though he was probably not supposed to know, that the Russian and most of his agents were on Control's payroll.

Romanov pushed open the door without knocking. In the living room, two Russian agents jumped up, guns out. But Lily's smile immediately calmed their alarm. They knew her – the girl who brought them their money.

"Denis in there?" Lily asked, gesturing to the bedroom door.

The agents seemed uneasy, embarrassed. "Don't interrupt him," one said. "He'll be out in a few minutes."

Romanov's smile turned lascivious. "He's expecting me," she answered. She breezed past them into the bedroom and closed the door behind her.

The Russian agents looked at Harley, clearly wondering why he was there. He shrugged, with his best engaging grin. He had no idea what he was doing there, either. He needed to make up something pretty damn fast, and Lily hadn't given him any …

From behind the closed door, Denis uttered a surprised oath. Something heavy fell. And a gun fired, twice.

The Russian agents reached for their just-holstered sidearms. Gage was quicker. "_Nyet_," he barked. "Don't do it."

Cover her ass, Romanov had said. If she wasn't dead in that bedroom he was going to _beat_ her ass.

The door opened. Romanov came out, uninjured. She had her gun in her hand, and she waved it at the agents until their hands went higher. Behind her, a young girl shuffled out, pulling her clothes into place.

The girl was dark-eyed and pretty, frightened and confused. She had no breasts, no hips, no curves at all.

She couldn't, Harley thought, have been more than twelve years old.

Lily pointed her gun at the nearest agent. "You will take her home," she ordered. "Then you will come back, get your stuff, and get out."

The agent nodded, shocked silent by what had just happened.

She turned to the other agent and gestured back toward the bedroom. "You can deal with his body or you can leave him, I don't care. But you will never say a word about what happened here. Understand?"

"Understand," he repeated blankly.

"Good."

She walked out of the room like she owned it, tucking her gun away as she went.

Harley looked at her, at the agents, at the girl. Twelve, maybe ten.

The Russians were gathering their wits. "When Control hears about this …" one of them muttered.

Harley put his gun away, gestured in the direction Lily had just gone. "Control already knows," he said firmly. "Why do you think he sent her?" He jerked his head towards the silent bedroom. "Maybe Comrade Denis was selling you all back to Moscow, hmm?"

The agents shared an uneasy look. Their station chief was dead, and had probably been a triple agent. Their source of money – crisp, green, American money – had just run dry. And the pretty girl they'd dismissed as a friendly courier had turned out to be a brilliantly effective assassin.

They looked at the native girl again. Then one took her arm, very gently. "I'll take you home now," he said.

Harley nodded in satisfaction and walked out.

He caught up with Romanov on the street. She wasn't even hurrying. "Are you fucking crazy?" he demanded, grabbing her arm. "Are you completely out of your fucking mind?"

Lily looked at him. Her eyes were eerily flat, still. Lifeless. "Did you see the girl?"

"I saw the girl. Of course I saw the girl. Denis was a sick fucking pervert. Fine. But you can't just walk into a room and kill a man like that."

"I just did."

She was so calm, so disconnected, that Harley began to think she actually _was_ insane. "He was on Control's payroll. Do you have any idea what's going to happen when he finds out about this?"

Lily's eyes narrowed. There was a question in them, a look of 'how can you be so dumb.'

Gage released her arm and stepped back. "Holy shit. Control _does_ know about this." He took a deep breath. He'd made the same mistake the Russians had. Sweet pretty little Lily, the courier, was Control's hammer.

That couldn't be right.

He'd seen her kill before. But that had been self-defense. This was something else. This was straight-up assassination. And she acted like it was something she did every day of the week.

Maybe she did.

Maybe everything he'd ever known about this woman was wrong.

"Holy shit," he breathed.

The girl straightened. Her eyes were still shark-like, dead. "Thanks for covering my ass, Harley."

She turned down an alley and disappeared into the shadows.


	6. Chapter 6

_ Last night the orthopedic ward was under fire. A shell crashed through six rooms, leaving devastation in its wake. Scattered in the corners of the rooms lie abandoned crutches, which the patients had been clutching at like straws, in the hope that one day they could walk again. Overturned beds, blood, cement … If he survives, Beslija Jazmir, a soldier from the front, will remember his fractured femur as an insignificant episode compared to the stomach wounds he received here last night. On the outside wall of the building, the shell's entry hole is surprisingly small, not crater-shaped at all; once inside, piercing one wall after another, the shell caused increasing damage, and sought out the same unlucky ones who had already been wounded in the bloody episode of Vasa Miskin Street. Death came for them a second time. _

_ But the story of the hospital is also the story of the children on the second floor of the orthopedic ward, among whom there are those who have had an arm or a leg amputated and are already showing a subconscious desire to prove themselves faster and more agile on their crutches than others. On the surface they seem in good spirits and extraordinarily willing and able to tell you how, where, and why they became forever different from other children in the world. But they're already fighting their personal battles with sleepless nights and emotional traumas they carry like a brand displaying their difference from the others. One of them had been carrying ammunition to Trebevic. (Whose idea was that, and why?) Another had simply been playing in the wrong place, providing a target for a sniper. A third had been standing too close to a window when one of those flying "mines" landed._

_Zlatko Dizdarević_

_Savajevo – A War Journal_

* * *

**Then**

Control was alone in his office when her call came through from Hungary. "Control."

"It's me," Lily said. "The seven of clubs is dead."

He raised one eyebrow. Denis Belanov has been the Russian station chief in Sarajevo – and on Control's payroll for a year. "Personal or incidental?" he asked.

"Personal," Lily answered. And then, without pause, she added, "He died of the same thing that killed all those men in Black River."

Control caught a deep breath. He understood exactly what she was saying, what she was confessing to. There had been rumors about Belanov's particular perversion. But he had been useful. To a point. "I understand." He took a moment to choose his words. "Are there others who are also likely to succumb?"

"No," Lily said firmly. "Just him. It's been contained."

"Good." And then, though he knew he shouldn't, he added, "Come home."

There was a pause much longer than distance could account for. Lily said, "Is that a request or an order?"

Control swore under his breath. Make it an order. Make her come home. Keep her close, keep her safe. Denis Belanov was a hazard he had not even anticipated for her. Order her home.

She would obey.

"It's a request," he said, half-choking on the words.

"I still have work to do," she answered.

There was static on the line and then silence.

* * *

_I remember going to our apartment during an alert. When I entered the corridor, all the doors were closed. Slowly I walked through the dark and opened the bedroom door. All at once, the sun shone brightly upon me. My sadness and fear completely vanished. But while I was enjoying it, I felt as if I had no right to such happiness._

_Ivan, 13, refugee from Tuzla_

_I Dream of Peace – Images of war by children of former Yugoslavia_

* * *

**Now**

Lily opened her apartment door cautiously, though she had no real cause for caution. There would probably not be a Serbian hit squad behind the door, or a Muslim militia, or a pair of renegade Russian arms dealers …

She shook her head and pushed the door open from the side, waited for the silence before she stepped in.

The living room smelled stale, but it was surprisingly cool. With the windows tightly shut, it had trapped some of her neighbor's air-conditioned air.

It had been five months since she'd been there.

There was a cardboard box open on the coffee table, full of mail. _He'd_ been here, recently. Brought her mail from the office. There was probably food in the refrigerator, too. Thoughtful. Sweet.

She wanted to cry.

She dropped her pack and hat and moved carefully to the hallway, then the bedroom. The apartment was empty. She'd known it would be. He was out of town. But he had been here, prepared a simple homecoming for her.

Lily stood by the big bed. It was a wonderful bed, chosen and dressed for comfort. Scarves draped from the wrought iron canopy and stars painted on the ceiling. A secret romantic bower. The nights she had shared there with him, the endless hours that always seemed too short, making love, talking, sleeping secure in his warmth … it was all distant. As if it had happened to someone else, as if she'd only read it or seen it in a movie. That bed had no part of her life, no place in her existence.

The stars, the scarves, the bed that had been whimsical and romantic suddenly seemed immature, ridiculous. It didn't belong here, didn't belong to her.

No, that wasn't right. The bed belonged. Lily didn't.

In a sudden frenzy, she grabbed a pillow and threw it across the room. Then another. She yanked the sea-green comforter off and stomped on it. Tore down a handful of the scarves, wadded them in a ball, threw them aside.

As suddenly as it had some, the frenzy passed and she looked at the devastation in great sorrow.

Lily walked out of the room, shaking herself. She was being an idiot. It was just a little unfamiliar, that was all. Been a long time since she was home. She needed a hot meal and a hot shower and a good night's sleep, and in the morning she'd be herself again. And he would come back and they would share the big bed and she'd be … she'd be …

Who?

Lily shook her head. She should never have stayed as long as she had. She should have followed her instinct back in Budapest. She should have come home then. Then she never would have met the boy with the green eyes.

Mama had a baby and the head popped off.

She wrapped her arms across her chest, chilled to the bone. She walked to the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. Four take-out containers, from four different restaurants. Fresh milk, juice, butter, fruit, eggs. A bottle of wine.

He stomach churned. She closed the door and walked to the bathroom.

Take a shower, she thought. You smell like a dead goat. Take a shower and then eat something, and you'll feel better.

She looked into the mirror over the sink. The woman who looked back was unfamiliar. Her hair was much too short, much too blond. The eyes were much too dead. She looked away, at the hand-painted vines that twined around the mirror. She had stenciled some of them, but he had painted others free-hand. Green vines and leaves, and huge bright flowers. An impersonal white bathroom had been transformed into a personalized jungle. A place that looked like home.

She brought her hands to her shirt buttons, unbuttoned the top one. Then she stopped, panic seizing her. To be naked, to be in the shower where she could neither see not hear someone coming up on her, filled her with terror. She shuddered again in the stuffiness of the room. Naked and vulnerable, where they could just …

Alone in your apartment with the door locked and a handgun on the edge of the sink, and no one is going to kick the door in, you're safe here, you're not in the war zone any more …

She buttoned the button again, her hands shaking fiercely. She couldn't do it.

A tiny monkey peered from behind one of the leaves.

Lily blinked and leaned closer. She was sure she was imagining it.

No. There. At the edge of the biggest leaf to the right of the mirror, a tiny monkey face was painted. He was hiding behind it, with just his little face and one paw visible, and the tip of his tail. He was no bigger than her thumbnail. But he was definitely a monkey.

She looked around. They were tiny, hard to spot, but there were more of them. They were hiding, playing. Peeking. She saw three on her first look around. Then she looked very intently and found a dozen more.

He had been here, while she was gone, and he had hidden monkeys in her bathroom. Her _kedves_, her beloved, had crept over here in some rare moment he could get away from the office, had brought his paints and a tiny paintbrush and crafted little friends for her. While she was gone, while he was lonely …

Lily grinned in uncertain delight. It was a mistake. The grin turned instantly to tears, and she found herself in a tight ball on the floor, sobbing.

The monkeys looked on sweetly.

* * *

_So it goes in Sarajevo, today as yesterday; tomorrow will be even worse. If there still is a Sarajevo, which is hard to say after the departure of its Jews, who have already packed their bags. The last seven hundred are about to go, members of a community that was one of the largest in this part of the world, people who were the marrow and fabric of Sarajevo, along with the Muslims, Croats, and Serbs. I remember being told, one night in Jerusalem, that Sarajevo was the only city in the world, after Jerusalem, where members of the three great world religions lived in harmony. Now the Jews of Sarajevo have to leave for a safe haven if they want to survive. Their most precious site, their old cemetery, a site of tremendous symbolic and historic value, has become a major stronghold of the chetniks of Sarajevo. It has been dug up, leveled, and paved. It has become an accursed place because of the snipers that terrorize the city. _

_Zlatko Dizdarević_

_Savajevo – A War Journal_

* * *

**Then**

The committee's meeting room was bright, spacious, with tall windows and comfortably-cushioned oak chairs. Outside the sky was brilliant blue. Light snow glittered on the grass like broken bits of discarded Christmas ornaments.

It was the same room, Control reflected, in which his dear friend Robert McCall had nearly buried him with his testimony, in front of this same committee. Most of the senators present were the same as well. Senior senators turned over very slowly, more often to death than to an election challenger.

This time, at least, they weren't after his blood.

The esteemed senators eyed the woman at his side with considerable interest, frank curiosity, and in at least two cases, barely-concealed lust. The Company rarely brought beautiful women to speak before any Senate committee. There was, Control reflected, more than one reason for that.

He might have made a mistake. The wolves were restless, more bored than hungry, and she looked like easy prey.

The notion nearly made him smile. Suckers, he thought. She's mine, and I'll defend her if I need to, but she won't need any protection from the likes of you. Even if you could catch her, as the old saying goes, you couldn't ride her.

"Gentlemen," he rumbled easily as they began to settle into their chairs, "I'd like you to meet Lily Romanov."

From the corner of his eye, he saw Senator Stovall flinch. Many years ago, Lily had been key in getting the senator's wayward son released from a Soviet Bloc prison. They'd never met, but clearly Stovall recognized her name.

Have to check up on the boy, Control noted to himself. See if he still had that embarrassing drug problem.

Stovall was a minor distraction. Before Lily was seated, the old man, Coleman, had started in. "What's your function, Miss Romanov?" he demanded.

She looked at him, and then she looked at Control. He nodded once.

"There's no need to look at him," Coleman snapped. "We're in closed session, there's no transcript, you're not under oath. Just answer the question, girl."

Lily looked at the senator again, a long, calm look that would have melted anyone who wasn't already a fossil. Then, with an impish little smile, she looked to Control again.

Impishly, he shrugged.

She turned back to Coleman. "I'm classified as a Logistics and Communications Specialist."

"Come again?"

"I'm a courier."

Coleman snorted. "That's what I thought you said. Damn it, Control, we said we wanted …"

"A field op," Lily interrupted calmly, "with in-depth knowledge of the situation on the ground in Bosnia-Herzegovina."

The senator glared. "Yes"

"All the field ops are in play," Romanov answered. "But I have personally been in contact with eighty-one percent of them in the last ninety days. I am able to provide a comprehensive overview of the situation in the theater." She pushed away strand of her freshly-blond hair in a distinctly girlish way, and smiled at him, "And I smell much better than they do."

The committee chuckled politely. She interested them, this lovely young woman with the little-girl smile and the big-girl body. The committee was always fascinated by spies, and this one, in her just-too-short skirt, with a hint of lace camisole peeking from beneath her jacket, this one they wanted to like.

Control nodded to himself. Everything, from her clothes to her hair to her opening words, had been chosen with great deliberation. The senators would hear what Control wanted them to hear, and understand it the way he wanted them to understand it. But only if she could get past Coleman.

The old man glared at Lily. She did not look away. He cleared his throat, reached for his water glass. "All right, let's see what you've got."

Lily stood up, smoothed her skirt, took a deep breath. Let them think she was a little nervous, a little overwhelmed by their grand status. Then she walked to the flip chart, turned back the first page to reveal a large map of the area, and began to speak.

Control and his aides had picked six hot spots for her to tell them about, with more detailed maps for each. The senators listened without interruption as she walked them through Gorazde, through Srebrenica, through the prison camp at Keraterm. But when she got to Bjelovcina and began to talk about the atrocities committed by Muslim militias there, she lost them.

"Wait," Stovall said. "I thought the Serbs were the bad guys."

Lily paused. "Everybody's the bad guy," she said simply. "There are three distinct factions in play. Whichever faction has the power in a particular area is doing everything it can to drive out members of the other factions. In some places they're teaming up – Muslims and Croats against the Serbs, Serbs and Croats against the Muslims – whatever they think will give them the upper hand. And when they've driven out or slaughtered the opposing group, they turn on each other."

"So it's a civil war," Coleman said tersely.

"No. Not exactly." Lily shook her head. "The actual citizens, the people who actually live in … well, here in Sarajevo." She flipped the charts, skipping two to get to the city. "These people have lived together for decades, generations. A lot of them hardly knew if their neighbors were Muslim or Catholic or Orthodox or Jewish. It didn't matter. Where the Olympics were held in 1984, the city was the foremost example of ethnic tolerance and cooperation. The various factions lived and worked side-by-side with very little friction."

"So why are they killing each other now?" Henderson asked. He was new to the committee, a young African-American with wire-rimmed glasses that made him look like a scholar rather than a politician. Control knew a little about him. He would bear watching.

"They're not," Lily answered.

"Now see here, young woman," Coleman barked. "You've been telling us for most of an hour …"

"The citizens of the cities, by in large, are not the ones committing the atrocities. These are outside agitators from Serbia, Croatia, Turkey, Iran. And to a lesser extent, there are leftover Communists."

Stovall said, "We keep hearing stories, neighbor turning against neighbor."

Lily nodded. "In some places, in some instances, certainly. But most of what we've seen …" She stopped, bit her bottom lip in consideration. "We've heard this story, this same story, from ten different sources. The Serb militia comes into a village. We're heard different locations, we assume it's happened more than once. The village is peaceful until they get there. They come in, they take over. They drag everybody out of their houses, men, women, children, and they line them up on the street, Serbs on one side, everybody else on the other." She paused again, took a drink to steady herself. "The militia leader goes to the first man on the Serb side of the street and hands him a gun. Tells him to point at his neighbor, the non-Serb, and shoot him."

"And he refuses," Coleman predicted.

"Sometimes," Lily agreed. "The militia leader takes back his gun and shoots the Serb man dead in front of his family. Then he steps over the body and hands the gun to the next Serb in the line. Gives him the same order. Shoot your non-Serb neighbor or be shot yourself." She shook her head. "We're told they never have to move to the third man in the line."

The room was silent. Outside, traffic moved past, unimpressed.

"These outside agitators," Henderson finally asked, "what's their goal?"

"Theoretically, their goal is to claim territory." Lily flipped another chart to a color-coded map. "The belief they spread is that the UN and NATO will step in any day and enforce boundaries based on the majority population in any given area. So the Serbs, especially, have the goal of driving out all local populations which are not Serb. Then when the boundaries are drawn they get to keep all that territory, whether it was traditionally Serb or not."

"You said theoretically," Coleman challenged.

Romanov paused, looked to Control again. "The truth is, from everything we've seen, the leaders of this war have the primary goal of continuing the war."

"That doesn't make any sense."

"It does, actually." Lily took another sip of water. "For one thing, they're getting rich. They loot whatever areas they take over; they skim profits from all the black market activities they allow; they get a cut of every illegal arms deal that goes down; they're paid bribes by all the aid organizations who go into those areas; and they get financial backing from their supporters outside the country. But more importantly, they're staying in power by terrifying their followers. So long as Milosevic can convince his people that the Croats and the Muslims want to take their land and kill their children, he stays in power. If the war ends and the boundary lines are drawn, people will look to him to rebuild and restore their country. And his insufficiencies will become almost immediately apparent."

The committee was silent for a moment. Then Meredith, a small, gray and usually silent man said, "I'm not sure we understand."

Lily nodded. "Take Sarajevo itself. The Serbs have blockaded and shelled it for months. There is no running water, infrequent electricity, no civil services at all. They bury their dead in their back yards because it's not safe to go out to the cemeteries. There are no trees in the park because they've all been cut down for firewood. There is very little food, very little medical care. No schools are open. The minute the war ends, the first thing the people who live there will do is look to the government to restore those things. To provide water and electricity, food and medical care. To bury their dead, to educate their children, to re-plant their trees. The war leaders aren't capable of those things. Even if they had the inclination, they don't have the funds – unless they take them out of their own Swiss accounts."

"You're telling us," Coleman said, "that the leaders of this country don't want peace."

"Yes."

"That they're willing to see their people starved and slaughtered so they can line their own pockets."

"Yes."

"And you expect us to believe that?"

"Based on the evidence we've gathered," Control said firmly, "that is the only possible conclusion."

"And you're willing to show us this evidence?" Henderson asked.

"Yes."

There was a moment of silence. Then Stovall said, quietly, "How do we deal with people like that?"

Lily shrugged apologetically. "That's above my pay grade, I'm afraid."

She sat down next to Control. The senators began to discuss the matter, to ask questions. Some of the questions they directed to Control, but the majority were to Lily. She answered what she could, deferred to him when she couldn't.

They believed her, Control thought with considerable satisfaction. Most of what she'd told them was the truth, but the coloring had been crucial to their understanding. She'd deflected their attention away from the NATO countries that were also making money on the nasty little war. In the questioning, she expressed how inadequate the UN effort was, but did so in a way that seemed more in sorrow than in anger; they were under-equipped and understaffed, she explained, and their mandate was unclear.

They believed her and they liked her.

And if the day ever came …

Control shook his head and gave his full attention to the committee.

* * *

**Now**

"It's best," Robert said, "that you don't stay alone tonight. Or for a few days. You're welcome to stay here, if you like."

Anne Keller nodded wearily. "I think I've been under your feet enough for one day."

"You're no trouble, believe me." Robert caught her look. "Well, you're a good deal less trouble than other house guests I've had, let me put it that way."

She nodded. "If it's all right with you … if you think it's all right, I'd like to go stay with Jamie."

McCall blinked. Jamie? Jamie who? Then he remembered the photographer who had been Anne's mentor. "An excellent choice," he agreed. "I doubt anyone would think to look for you there."

"Do you think … they'd come after me?" she worried. Jamie Sullivan, they both knew, had been crippled years before in Belfast, shot through both knees by an IRA assailant.

"No, no," Robert assured her quickly. "Once the pictures are out, it won't do the government any good to come after you. But there may be considerable interest from the press. If you want to tell your story, you certainly can. Within the guidelines of …"

"Mickey's security, I know," Anne finished for him. "I'd rather let the pictures speak for themselves."

McCall nodded. "That will make things simpler. I'm sure Control has arranged to provide all the validation the photos will need."

The young woman nodded solemnly. "Do you know why? Why he's helping us?"

"Control? No. Not precisely. Though I am quite sure it plays into a much larger scheme." Robert shook his head. "Best not to think about it too much. The pictures will be out by morning, and they will cause actions to be taken. That much you can be sure of."

"There are going to be air strikes," Anne said.

"What?"

"They're calling in NATO air strikes." She hesitated, clearly wondering if she ought to be telling him this. Then she shrugged. Mickey trusted him; Control trusted him. "They threw all the reporters out. All the intelligence people, too. Everybody that could get out was getting out. Except … Mickey. And a couple others."

"Of course. Our Mickey does like to be where the action is, doesn't he?"

Anne's eyes filled with tears, and she blinked them back. "He said he'd be careful." She twisted the rings on her left hand; she'd put her engagement ring on over the wedding band. "He promised he'd come home."

"I'm sure he will," Robert said warmly. He put his arm around her. "I'm sure he will."

He drove her to Jamie Sullivan's house and entrusted her to the wise old photographer's care. Jamie was himself a veteran of many wars, many horrors. McCall hoped that Sullivan would be able to give her more comfort, more perspective, than he could.

Driving to the cemetery, alone with his thoughts, Robert let himself worry. If Control had known the bombs were already on their way – if he was certain enough of that to have pulled his people out – then the photos were not to provoke the action, but to justify it. If McCall had been a shade more cynical, he would have suspected the spymaster of staging the photos for that reason. But the scale was too massive. And the choice of photographers too careless. If Control had planned the photos as a stunt, he would not have involved Anne Keller, or Robert. Or Lily Romanov.

Lily, of course, was the key. If Control had planted the photos and used McCall to deliver them, Lily would have stayed on hand to convince him of their authenticity. Instead, she had vanished. The pictures needed no selling.

There was also the matter of Nancy Campbell's death, so graphically photographed.

And Lily's hair. So short, so obviously chopped in a moment of great despair. It was at once too subtle and too obvious to have been faked. Robert had seen the pictures, and that was horrible enough. If he'd actually been there, with the smell and the vast reality of it, he might well have torn his hair and rent his clothes, too. Might very well have.

McCall let his hand drop to the envelope of photos on the seat beside him. Whatever Control's reasons were, the people who had done this deserved every bomb they were about to be hit with.


	7. Chapter 7

_ Western inaction, even indifference, became the standard approach to the ethnic cleansing, mass rapes, and shelling of civilian areas. Though the U.S. continued to aver that it could do little to stop the Serbian (as well as Croatian) attacks on Bosnia, it now appears that this was not at all the case. According to one study, the CIA issued a report at the onset of the Bosnian war stating that 95 percent of the Serb artillery around Sarajevo could be destroyed in a single day of air strikes (Vulliamy 1995, p.5). This unpublished report was in complete contradiction to the continued retorts of administration spokespersons that lifting the siege of Sarajevo would entail a major U.S. military commitment. Colin Powell's famous refrain that "We do deserts, we don't do mountains" became the standard rationale for Western do-nothingness in the face of a genocidal effort to destroy a multiethnic society._

_Peter Hudis_

_"Bosnia in a historic mirror: A commentary"_

* * *

**Then**

They de-briefed from the Senate session in the living room on Control's hotel suite. Lily was exhausted.

"You look like they put you through the ringer," Simms said, bringing her coffee in a china cup. Control did not book himself into cheap hotels when he could avoid it.

Romanov nodded. "They had a lot of questions."

"She did very well," Control said, sitting down with his own coffee. "If we need to bring her back, they'll eat right out of her hand."

Russo said, "I still think we should've brought in a field op. You know, someone with some muscle, show we have real soldiers out there."

"Sure," Control answered. "We'll bring in Kostmayer next time. Let him get in a big pissing contest with Coleman right there in the committee room. That'll do our next budget a world of good, I'm sure."

Russo snorted, but had no answer.

"Are they ready to move?" Walker asked. "To recommend troops?"

"No," Control replied. "But they're ready to think about it. Which is the best we could hope for."

"They seemed surprised," Lily commented.

"By your testimony?" Simms asked.

"Yes." She put her coffee down and sat forward. "Why did they seem surprised? Nothing I said was new intelligence. Why haven't they heard it before?"

There was a moment of uncomfortable silence. "You don't need to worry about that," Walker said.

"Above your pay grade," Russo agreed.

Control said, "They've been given contradictory intelligence by other entities."

"Other entities?" Lily asked. "Or other offices of _this_ entity?"

"Both," Simms said. He looked to Control for permission to continue, got it in a nod. "They were told, for example, that the satellite photos couldn't locate artillery groups because of the dense forests, so they couldn't be used as guidance for air strikes."

Lily's eyes narrowed. "You mean like those artillery groups that are set up in mall parking lots and the middle of crossroads?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"That really isn't …" Russo began again.

Control cut him off. "They don't believe this situation is worth the risk that our intervention might pose."

"People are dying by the thousands."

"Yes," Simms said, "but they're not _our_ people."

Lily sat back.

"You can understand their viewpoint," Walker supplied. "It's really a civil war. What happens in the region doesn't affect our national security at all."

The woman nodded. "It's not like they have oil or anything."

"Exactly."

She looked to Control. "How do you not just kill these people?" she blurted. She did not have to look at Walker to include him in her meaning.

"Their replacements would be worse."

"I'd be willing to risk it."

He smiled tightly. "And that's why you don't have my job. Yet."

* * *

**Now**

When she woke it was half-dark. She was cramped and achy, her shoulder numb from being pressed against the side of the bathtub, her hip sore from the hard bathroom floor. She had a headache.

Lily pushed herself up slowly. The old break in her ribs ached. The old dislocation in her shoulder. A hundred other old wounds showed up, just to remind her. She climbed slowly, carefully, to her feet.

The monkeys were still there.

Her face was caked with slime.

She ran cold water in the sink - turn the tap, get clean water, what a concept - and splashed her face. Usually, she thought, when I wake up on the bathroom floor I've at least had a good time the night before. She used the toilet, then washed her hands all the way to the elbow. Then she washed her face again. She opened the medicine cabinet. It was weird to see the half-bottle of aspirin right where she'd left it, all those months ago.

She took two, careful to avoid looking at herself in the mirror. Then she went back to the living room. Through the drapes she could see that it was dusk. Finally, finally, night was coming. She didn't know why she was sure the night would be better, but she knew it would. Night was her time. Night was safe.

Lily glanced at the box of mail. She didn't care about any of it. It would wait. But on the top of the pile was a fat brown parcel, perched as if he'd left it there on purpose. Hand-addressed, brown wrapping paper and clear tape, with an assortment of stamps. She leaned closer, then picked it up. Books, from the feel of it.

It was from the Children's Home.

She just held it for a moment. It seemed like only a few days since she'd left Scott McCall's wedding in a frantic quest to reach Mrs. Nabakowski's side before she died. And she'd made it; she'd been there nearly ten hours before the old woman finally drifted off to sleep. The crowd outside, young children and grown children and children's children, softly singing on the hot July grass, singing Christmas carols, because they'd remembered that was what the old lady loved most.

The old lady just closing her eyes and drifting to sleep, and her hand growing cooler in Lily's … a sweet and easy death, not like Nancy's, not like the boy with the green eyes.

Mama had a baby …

Lily shook herself hard. It hadn't been last week, or last year. It had been a war and a lifetime ago. Reluctantly, she tore open the package.

There were notebooks inside. The top one was red, spiral-bound, stained and worn, and Lily recognized it instantly as the old woman's cookbook. Fifty ways to feed a dozen kids on no budget. She opened the front cover and found a note tucked inside. They hadn't known what to do with the old woman's things, she had no family, but they'd thought Lily would like these.

She turned a few pages lovingly, savoring the woman's handwriting again, so formal, so crisp, sometimes lost beneath grease and batter stains.

The other notebooks were older, composition books with only dates on the fronts. They were diaries.

Lily put them down gently, unopened. Some day. Not now.

How long had it been since Mrs. Nabakowski died? How long had she been away? She knew, in part of her mind, but the other parts could not calculate how long, how far.

She didn't belong here any more. Maybe she never would again.

Lily grabbed her keys from her pack and left the apartment.

* * *

_ Mommy goes to work at her new office. She goes when there's no shooting, but we never know when the shelling will start. It's dangerous to walk around town. It's especially dangerous to cross our bridge, because snipers shoot at you. You have to run across. Every time she goes out, Daddy and I go to the windows to watch her run. Mommy says: "I didn't know the Miljacka (our river) was so wide. You run, and you run, and you run, and there's no end to the bridge." That's fear, Mimmy, fear that you'll be hit by something. _

_Zlata Filipovic_

_Zlata's Diary – A Child's Life in Sarajevo_

* * *

**Then**

The thing about the spy business that they never tell you, Harley Gage thought, is how much of it is just damn boring.

He had been sitting for most of three days, in a wonderfully comfortable chair that he'd dragged out of a lovely abandoned apartment. He'd put it in the hall just behind an archway. From there he had a perfect view out the bomb-blasted hole in the outside wall to the bridge.

It was a beautiful old stone bridge, a footbridge over a river that had also been beautiful once, before it had been clogged with trash and branches and the occasional animal carcass. The human bodies usually got dragged out upstream; he'd only seen one in the days he'd been watching, a bloated white thing that smelled even from where he sat. Frankly, he wouldn't have dragged it out, either.

Across the river, in the trees, a sniper waited. He shot at everyone who tried to cross the bridge. In the three days Harley had been there, the sniper had fired forty-seven shots. He had hit only two people, neither fatally.

The sniper was a terrible shot, or else he didn't really want to kill anyone. Either way, his presence kept the villagers from getting to the other side of the river here. The only other bridge was downstream, a vehicle bridge, and a Serb militia group was posted at the other side.

The soldiers had not crossed into the village, though they could easily have done so. They seemed to be under orders to hold the bridge and wait. Which implied that there was a much larger plan in the works.

Harley watched the footbridge. Teddy Roelen was watching the bigger bridge. If the Serbs tried to cross either one in force, the Americans had radios to report in.

Report in and take cover. Nothing else.

Harley shifted, sat up. He was bored out of his mind.

In half an hour or so, one of the couriers would come up, bring him some food, keep watch while he went for a stretch and a piss. Probably Nancy Campbell. She was pretty high-strung and she talked too much. She always seemed nervous to Harley. Nervous of him. He knew Romanov had trained the girl. He wondered what she'd told Nancy about him. She always stayed at arms length, literally.

But Nancy Campbell wasn't really his type anyhow. She was still getting over that Mark kid. Nice kid, and a hell of a way to die. Nancy had wanted to be in love forever and ever. Not practical, in this business. And definitely not Harley's type.

He wanted the type of woman that would roll out of bed in the morning, yell 'see ya' over her shoulder, and disappear. Someone like Romanov.

He shook his head, chasing that thought away. Not Romanov. She was beautiful, she had a great attitude, she understood his ways. She was amazing in bed. And she was dangerous as a viper. Hell, she'd been dangerous _before_ Central America. Throw in a few weeks of rape and torture … nope. Not Romanov, not ever again.

And that was before he'd known she was Control's personal assassin.

He hadn't told anyone about the Russian. Kostmayer, he assumed, already knew. And no one else would believe him anyhow. Pretty little Lily, everybody's friend.

Gage stood up and stretched, careful to keep to the shadows. Then he walked around the big chair and leaned on the back of it. He felt the circulation easing back into his buttocks. He'd been sitting for a long time.

If they come over the bridge, he thought, report it and hide.

That was all they ever did in this hellhole of a country.

They would get an order. Urgent that they locate such-and-such battery emplacement. Urgent that they identify such-and-such militia group. Locate tanks, locate ammo dumps. They did. They found what they were supposed to find, and they reported back. And nothing happened. No air strikes, no covert strikes. In a few weeks whatever they'd been sent to find was moved. And a few weeks later, they were told to find it again.

Harley recognized the pattern. Control was keeping his board fresh. If the call came, we've got air support, give us a target, Control would have it and it would be dead accurate. But the orders never came through. The Serbs kept moving, and Control kept updating his board.

Oh please, Gage thought, I am so bored with updating the board. Please let something happen.

There was motion on the far side of the bridge. Harley squinted. Looked like more than one person. Maybe the militia, finally. He reached for his binoculars with one hand, his radio with the other.

One look, and he put the radio down. It wasn't the Serbs. It was just a family. As he watched, they stopped beside the last building on the far side of the river. Between them and the bridge was open space. Killing space.

Children, Harley noted, and groaned. Three children, from maybe eight to maybe four, and two older kids, teens. They were with a much older woman, probably their grandmother. All of them, even the smallest child, carried a bag. Refugees from the countryside, looking to make it into the village, where there would be food, if not safety.

Gage turned his glasses towards the woods where he knew the sniper was. The gunman had been quiet that morning. One shot fired early, nothing since. There was no glint of glass in the trees. Maybe he was sleeping. Maybe he was gone.

Harley looked back towards the family. The grandmother – she might be the mother, women got old fast in these parts – inched carefully around the corner of the building, looking towards the woods. She was tense, ready to bolt for cover at the sound of a shot. By the time you hear it, Gage thought, it would be too late. But no shot was fired. Maybe the sniper had taken the day off.

Emboldened, the woman stepped clear of the building, still watching. Still no shot.

She took three full steps into the open. Her shoulders were hunched almost to her ears. She was terrified, waiting.

Still nothing.

The shoulders came down a little. The woman turned and gestured to the children.

Harley's own shoulders tensed as the children came into the open. He watched through his binoculars as the bigger children herded the smaller ones, keeping them in their shadows, hiding them with their own bodies from the sniper who might not be there. Closely huddled, they joined their mother or grandmother and moved towards the bridge.

The family was half-way across the pretty stone bridge when the shot sounded. They ducked as one, all of them hitting the deck in a beautifully practiced move of self-preservation. The stone railing gave them some protection, but the spindles were widely spaced, airy.

They had to move, Harley thought, or the sniper would pick them off one by one.

A pool of red was spreading around Grandma. She wouldn't be getting up.

Harley bit his lip to stop from shouting. Then he gave up, stepped into the light and shouted to them, "Move! Move! You've got no cover there!"

The teens, a boy and a girl, looked towards him, startled. But they began to move, creeping forward on their hands and knees, pulling the little ones with them, keeping their heads below the rail.

The sniper fired again, and the bullet plunked into the wall three feet to Harley's left.

"Yeah, that's it," Harley snarled. "You keep firing at me, smart boy. Come on. Bring it!" He stepped out of the shadows again, waving his arms. "Come on!" he shouted. "I'm over here!" Then he ducked back as another bullet shattered much closer to where he'd just been.

The family, what was left of it, was three-quarters of the way over the bridge. Fifteen more seconds and they'd be across.

But then there were twenty yards of open ground to navigate, no cover at all, before they'd be safe.

Gage stepped out of the shadows again. "You got lousy aim, you miserable coward!" he screamed. The sniper obliged him with another round, much closer than the first two. Either it was a different sniper or he'd been taking lessons. Harley didn't care. "That the best you can do?" he taunted before he retreated to shadows again.

Beside his chair, the radio cackled to life. "Gage, what's going on up there?" Teddy Roelen wanted to know.

Harley didn't have time to answer. He grabbed the back of his comfortable chair and shoved it out into the light. The sniper shot right through the back of it. But that decoy would only work once, and the kids were at the end of the bridge. Twenty yards. The teens could sprint, but the little ones would be slower. He could see the older boy gathering the smallest one in his arms, prepared to carry her. It would slow him down, a lot.

He should think about this, Harley thought. But there was no time. And really, nothing to think about. The kids were going to die. And they didn't deserve that. They deserved to grow up. They deserved time to drink and carouse and have irresponsible sex with dangerous men and women …

"Damn, I'm turning into McCall," Gage muttered under his breath. Then he looked one more time at the kids, made sure they were ready before he stepped out of the shadows. "You miserable son of a bitch!" he shouted towards the sniper. "You miserable cock-su …"

The next bullet ripped through his left lung. Harley felt it, didn't look down. "Took you fucking long enough!" he screamed. "You couldn't shoot the broad side of a barn, you lousy shit-faced …"

The next one hit him in the heart. The impact spun him and he staggered. Two steps, and he was dead and falling, through the hole a bomb had made months ago and onto the pavement below.

The sniper shot him six more times as he lay unmoving in the street.

The children escaped into the relative safety of the village.

* * *

_There isn't a graveyard anywhere in the world quite like the Lion. Here are hundreds and hundreds of people who probably never knew each other, but who belonged to the great family of regular people, people who looked to the future and weren't crazed by their genes, or by the phony myths about their past; people who weren't trapped inside a tight flock where survival can only be collective and ruled by the authority of a Leader and the blood oath. _

_ By the feet of the stone Lion are other lions who had something exceptional in common: the same year of departure, the year of the bloodbath – 1992. It took some of them young, some of them older. May it be cursed, this year 1992, for driving six feet underground people who loved people. Who will pay, and when, and how, for the new inscriptions to be carved on the markers of these fresh graves? These are the freshest, all lined up in rows. They will have to be paid for. And the price, I guarantee you, won't be cheap. _

_Zlatko Dizdarević_

_Savajevo – A War Journal_

* * *

**Now**

McCall was ten minutes early reaching the cemetery. There was no other car in sight. He turned the Jag around so he was facing out the driveway. Then he called home to check his messages.

Nick Kostmayer had called every fifteen minutes for the last hour. The same message, the number at the rectory and a request to call him. Robert looked around. Still no pick-up. He called the number.

"St. Christina's," Nick answered, rather breathlessly.

"It's Robert McCall."

The relief in the priest's voice was clear. "Robert, thank you for calling. I might be overreacting, I probably am. But …"

Oh, God, McCall thought, something's happened to Mickey. But then, it was unlikely that Nick would have heard it before he did. "What's the problem?" he asked calmly.

The priest hesitated. "I'm not sure there it a problem. But … Lily Romanov was here earlier."

Robert sat up straight in his seat. Romanov at a church? "She was there?"

"Yes. Well, outside. I asked her to come in, have something cool to drink, but she wouldn't. She was so … I don't know any kind way to say this, Robert. Her eyes looked so dead."

McCall nodded to himself.

"I didn't know quite what to do, who I should call or … she wouldn't stay, I asked her to, but she was just gone. I don't know even why she was here. I mean, obviously she was seeking some kind of answer, some kind of grace, but …"

"I know," Robert said, as reassuringly as he could. "I saw her earlier today. She's just come back from the war zone, and she's a bit … disconnected. I'll find her, Nick. But I'm sure she's all right."

"Thank you. Like I said, I didn't know who to call …"

"No, you did just the right thing. I'll find her."

There was a pause. "Robert, I … she said Mickey was all right."

"Yes," McCall answered at once. "As far as I know, Mickey's fine. Anne Keller was with him just before she left, and she said he was fine." Robert hesitated now. "If you watch the news the next few days … you'll see that he is in some peril. But I know your brother, Nick. He will not be where the bombs land, I assure you."

"Where the … oh."

"That wasn't as reassuring as I meant it to be," Robert continued as lightly as he could. "But believe me, Nick, at this moment I am more worried about Lily than Mickey."

"I, uh. Thank you again, Robert. I think I'll go pray for them both."

"That might be very useful," Robert answered. "Very useful indeed." A car pulled into the driveway and stopped nose-to-nose with the Jaguar. "I have to go. Please call me if you see her again."

"I will. Thank you."

McCall put down the phone and opened his car window. Less than two minutes later, he was on his way, and the pictures were on theirs.

* * *

_Mommy is carrying home the water. It's hard on her, but she has to do it. The water hasn't come back on. Nor has the electricity. _

_ I didn't tell you, Mimmy, but I've forgotten what it's like to have water pouring out of a tap, what it's like to shower. We use a jug now. The jug has replaced the shower. We wash dishes and clothes like in the Middle Ages. This war is taking us back to olden times. And we take it, we suffer it, but we don't know for how long?_

_Zlata Filipovic_

_Zlata's Diary – A Child's Life in Sarajevo_

* * *

**Then**

Lily flew back to Germany with Gage's body, and Robert McCall met them there, at a small private airstrip, in the pouring rain. She huddled next to him under his umbrella and they watched the coffin being loaded onto an anonymous truck.

Her hair was stringy, and she had the distinct too-soapy smell of someone who'd been washing in a wash basin instead of a tub for far too long.

"I'm sorry," Lily said as the van door slammed.

Robert sighed. He had always known, always, that Harley Gage would end up dead by the gun. Just as he had always known that the same fate likely waited for him. "I don't suppose there's any question."

"That it's Harley," Lily asked, "or that he's dead?"

"Both."

"No."

"To both?"

"Yes." And again, "I'm sorry."

The van's motor started. "You want to follow them?" Lily asked.

McCall considered, then shook his head. "No. I'm sure they'll take good care of him." They would take him to the main airport, check the body into a cooler until the red-eye commercial flight back to the U.S. Harley Gage would return home as cargo.

Robert would be on the flight with the body, but until then there was nothing he needed to do. Gage was dead. Romanov was still living. "Let's get a hotel room," he suggested.

Lily peered up at him curiously. "What'd you have in mind, big boy?"

"A long hot shower," McCall answered, with a small indulgent smile, "for you. And then dinner. A very nice, very expensive dinner. My treat. You look as if you could use it."

She shrugged. "I need to load up on some things before I go back."

"Fine. A shower, dinner, and shopping then. We have time."

"You're pretty adamant about this shower thing."

"Yes."

"Trying to tell me something, Robert?"

He sniffed delicately. "Yes. Yes, I am."

They watched the truck drive away. Then they walked slowly, arm-in-arm under his umbrella, to his rental car. "You know," Robert said, opening her door for her, "if I never meet another plane the carries the body of a friend, it will be too bloody soon."

Lily nodded solemnly. When he was behind the wheel, she asked, "Do you want to know?"

"How he died?" McCall hesitated. "I don't know. Do I?"

She nodded. "He was a hero. A damn fool, but a hero."

"Yes, well." Robert brushed at his eyes impatiently. "That pretty much sums up Harley Gage in his entirety, now doesn't it?" He started the car. "Tell me everything."

* * *

_Something similar happened on a bus that appeared out of nowhere, on a nonscheduled run along the city's main thoroughfare. The driver announced to us that he was going up to the television building and back. Right in front of us, a woman asked the conductor (who sat in his seat, in accordance with the regulations) how much the fare was. "If you have money, it's three dinars. If you don't, pay us when the war is over," the charming conductor told her. _

_ We offered to pay the (as it turned out) penniless woman's fare, but the conductor wouldn't hear of it. "Please, it's out of the question. Our company, the municipal transportation enterprise, offers free rides to fellow citizens who have to get to work." Way to go! We had a nice ride, feeling less afraid than usual. Such a bus had to be immune to mortar shells and sniper bullets. Hopes of that sort are all we have left._

_Zlatko Dizdarević_

_Savajevo – A War Journal_

* * *

**Then**

"I could ask for a doggie bag," Robert offered, "but he'll give me _that_ look, you know."

Lily looked up from her steak and smiled briefly. "Sorry. I'll ask. Chicks do stuff like that all the time."

"Chicks. Indeed." McCall gestured for the waiter. "The lady would like to take the rest of her dinner with her."

"Oh," the waited said crisply. He actually raised his chin so he could look down his nose. "Well. I'll see what I can do." He whisked her plate away and stomped back to the kitchen.

Lily smiled tightly. "Well."

"Yes," Robert answered, unimpressed by the server's elegant strop. The man hadn't liked them from the moment they sat down. McCall could see him judging them – a well-dressed older gentleman and a much younger woman who, despite a shower and new clothes still had the air of the street about her. The waiter had doubtless decided that Lily could be had by anyone for the price of a good meal, and probably a lot less, and he didn't particularly want her in his restaurant.

His attitude had amused them greatly through dinner.

"Well," Robert said, when they had further annoyed their server by ordering coffee and desserts, "are you feeling better now?"

"I am," Lily confirmed. "It is good to be clean and fed."

"Good. What else can I do for you?"

The woman frowned over her bite of chocolate mousse. "Nothing that I know of."

"No messages to carry, even?"

"Ah." Lily nodded, understanding. "You mean to he who shall remain nameless. No. Thank you, but … I wouldn't begin to know what to say. Tell him I said hello, and that I was clean and well-fed when last you saw me."

Robert nodded. "I will." He had not actually expected that she would entrust him with anything more.

"Tell him …" she added, and then stopped. "Take him to dinner, would you? Make him go out with you like this, to have a real meal. He never eats any more."

"Ah. And you think I can persuade him to do that, to leave his office and his many intricate plots and just sit down to a meal?"

"I think you can be very persuasive when you want to be," Lily answered brightly.

McCall nodded. "I'll do what I can."

"Thank you." She scraped the bottom of her dish thoughtfully with her spoon. The waiter appeared with a disapproving look, and Lily said, unperturbed, "That was good. Bring me another one, will you?"

He stood up straighter, if that was possible, and puffed out his chest against the buttons of his stark white tuxedo shirt. "Another, miss? You did not even finish your steak."

"Bring the lady another mousse," Robert said sternly. "And bring me more coffee, and bring me some _fresh_ cream this time."

"Yes, _sir_," the waiter snarled as he went away.

They looked at each other and chuckled.

"Harley doesn't have any family, does he?" Lily asked, sobering.

"No," Robert answered. "None that I know of. I'll take care of the arrangements." He shook his head. "I suppose I was his family."

Lily reached across the table and took his hand. "I'm so sorry, Robert."

"Is there any hope?" McCall asked. "In the Balkans, I mean. Any sign of a resolution?"

The courier withdrew her hand. "They'll have to stop fighting some time. Eventually everyone will be dead."

"I meant short of that."

"No." Lily shook her head. "The way it looks right now, they'll slaughter each other to the last man."

The waiter came with coffee and mousse, and left without comment. McCall added cream and sugar to his coffee, which he almost never did, and stirred it thoughtfully. "So many things we should have done differently," he mused.

"Too late now," Lily answered. "The cork's off the bottle. There's no putting the bubbles back."

"All those years. All of the Cold War, fighting to give these people their freedom."

"And now they're free to kill each other." Lily touched his hand again. "I'm sorry, Robert. You shouldn't ask questions you don't want the answers to. I'll tell you it's all rosy if you want. That peace is just around the corner, that there are pockets of civilization left …"

"No. Just tell me …" He drew a breath. "Tell me that the friends I've lost did not die in vain."

Lily looked at him steadily for a moment. Then she said, "Harley Gage threw himself in front of a sniper to save the lives of five children he didn't even know."

McCall's eyes narrowed. "So you said."

"If Harley Gage, of all people, can become courageous and noble and heroic, if _Harley Gage_ can lay down his life to save others … then I think there's probably still hope for the rest of the world."

Slowly, McCall nodded. It was cold comfort, but sometimes that was all there was to be had. He squeezed her hand. "Thank you."

The waiter set down her left-overs, wrapped in an elegant foil swan, and sneered.


	8. Chapter 8

**Now**

Lily Romanov walked away from her apartment building at an even, don't-attract-attention pace. An hourly worker headed in for the night shift, but not late. It didn't matter, really. This was New York. Nobody cared where she was going or how fast she needed to get there.

Even she didn't care.

Out of habit more than design, she found herself across the street from Scott and Becky's apartment. She went into the corner store and bought a Coke and a pack of Camels, then stood at the end of the alley, smoking with relish and watching the building. She knew which windows were theirs. Lights on in the living room, blue flickers from the TV. A fan whirling in the window.

Becky had her own restaurant now, some kind of breakfast place. Scott was working on Broadway. They were expecting a child before Christmas. Tidbits and rumors Lily'd picked up along the way. She hadn't seen them in over a year.

She didn't need to see them now. She only needed to see the light in their living room, the flicker of their TV. She only needed to know that somewhere in the city people were still human, still had normal lives. Still chased careers that didn't involve shooting other people. Still had babies. Still had dreams.

They were only across the street. She could go there right now, she knew, and knock on their door, and they would welcome her. Becky would feed her and Scott would fuss over her, they would do anything they could to help her. The room would be light, and there would be comedy on the TV. They would draw her back to the real world with their concern for her, their love for each other. They would talk about their plans, their hopes, their child-to-be.

If she tried to cross the street, no sniper would shoot at her.

Lily lit a second cigarette from the butt of the first one. She drained the Coke, and only then acknowledged that she was loading up on caffeine and sugar and smoke so she wouldn't have to sleep.

There were dandelions growing in the cracks of the sidewalk. Mama had a baby and the head popped off.

Across the street might as well be across the world.

She turned away and walked up the dark alley.

* * *

_We gave ourselves a treat today. We picked the cherries off the tree in the yard and ate them all up. We had watched it blossom and its small green fruits slowly turn red and now here we were eating them. Oh, you're a wonderful cherry tree! The plum tree hasn't gotten any fruit so we won't even get to try it! I miss fruit a lot. In these days of war in Sarajevo, there is no basic food or any of the other things a person needs, and there is no fruit. But now I can say that I ate myself silly on cherries. _

_Zlata Filipovic_

_Zlata's Diary – A Child's Life in Sarajevo_

* * *

**Then**

Lily Romanov had been making midnight runs for six weeks before she got caught.

It was easy – and sensible – to hike over the mountain from the enclave to the city with the rest of the refugees. Her clothes were tattered and smelly; she fit right in. They would climb the trail at night, haul back as much food as they could carry the next night. While they were stopped, Lily would turn over whatever information she had to the next leg.

She carried back enough food for a family for a week, and the others making the trip assumed she was the only one of her clan fit enough to make the trip. She ate some of the provisions, more than she really wanted, because she recognized the need to keep herself fit. The rest she left on windowsills throughout the town.

No one questioned finding extra food at their window in the morning. Wherever they thought it came from, they were glad to get it.

The windows of the little house were open. Lily stood on a crate and reached through to put a little bag of sugar on the counter – and a hand grabbed her wrist.

She looked up into the biggest, greenest eyes she had ever seen.

The boy was five or six years old, with dark hair and skin, but his eyes were stunningly pale and green. His hand was cold, his fingers thin but determinedly strong.

"Who are you?" he whispered in the dark kitchen.

"Just a friend," Lily whispered back. "Don't tell anybody."

He stared at her, frightened and fascinated. "Are you a sprite from the forest?"

"Maybe."

"Why would a sprite have UN aid food?"

Lily frowned. "Do you want the sugar or not?"

The boy finally released her arm. "Yes, please."

She reached into her bag and brought out an apple. "Here. Eat this. You need it."

The boy nodded solemnly. "I'll share it with my sister," he promised.

Lily sighed and brought out a second apple. "Now get back to bed."

He padded away across the dark kitchen in his bare feet. Then he turned back. "Thank you," he said. "I will pray for you."

The courier's mouth went dry. She nodded. "You do that."

When the boy was out of the room, she unloaded the rest of her pack onto his kitchen counter.

Every trip after that, for as long as she was able to get into the city, she stopped at the house and made sure the nameless green-eyed boy and his family got food.

* * *

_The gentlemen of CNN, longing for another Desert Storm, suddenly began turning up the heat in support of a military intervention, whose outcome could be a latter-day General Patton's entry into the camps as a liberator, bearing the flag of American freedom. It looks as if things are getting serious. _

_ Two nights in a row, while we still had electricity, we watched an hour-long American television program devoted to us. A whole hour is not to be sneezed at, considering that every second of CNN's summer programming costs millions of dollars. In other words, they sniffed out new business, and we want to thank them for it. The critical mass of deaths here may finally be sufficient to make something happen. As for the critical mass of suffering, it is already so high that any action, were it to come, would be too late for us to forgive everyone for what has occurred already. First of all, how could we forgive their reluctance to see or recognize the existence of concentration camps when they have been there to be seen by squirrels on every bough? _

_ The story of the camps began, unfolded, and is drawing to an end right here, in Sarajevo, the biggest concentration camp the world has ever seen, and it is unlikely the world will ever witness one of its size again. _

_Zlatko Dizdarević_

_Savajevo – A War Journal_

* * *

**Now**

What was happening in the Balkans was, for the moment, out of their hands. They had given the best intelligence they had: the most accurate coordinates, the recommended target priorities, the probabilities of civilian casualties in every area.

When intelligence fails, Control thought dourly, we call in the big guns.

He sat in an obscure situation room with a dozen others of his kind and watched on a satellite screen as the NATO bombs began to fall again on Bosnia.

There was a time, he mused, when it would have taken days for the news to get out. Now, cable had it as breaking news within the hour.

It was a holiday weekend. All the name anchors were gone, and probably all the name producers. The third-tier faces did the best they could. They kept stumbling over the pronunciation of Bosnia-Herzegovina. The pros had long ago shortened it to simply Bosnia, or BiH to be politically correct.

Control could almost hear the phones ringing in newsmen's penthouses across Washington.

Around him, there was muttering, small talk. The commentators began with a more-or-less accurate background of the conflict. They moved on to 'experts', ex-military and ex-intelligence, who spun the story in accordance with their level of knowledge and their personal politics.

The words 'wag the dog' were spoken and began to be repeated. The bombings in Bosnia, someone said, were merely to distract the American people from the president's political problems.

Control rubbed his eyes and waited.

Another hour. More spin, less truth. He looked at his watch. It was probably dark outside. He was worried about the men he still had over there, there were the bombs lit up the satellite screen like Christmas lights. Oh, Kostmayer and the others were nimble enough not to be where the bombs fell, he was sure. But accidents happened. And even the best op could make a dumb mistake.

He was also worried about Lily. Worried and elated at once. She was home now. Safe in the States. Home for good, she'd said. No more field work, she'd said. No more weeks and months without her, no more half-sleep nights wondering where she was. No more dreading that every phone call might tell him she was dead.

It would be a big adjustment for her, giving up the danger, the thrill. But there was no doubt in Control's mind that she was ready. It had been her idea entirely.

Finally. And yet –

Where was she now?

He kept his face carefully neutral, bored, and tried to concentrate on the news.

When the commentators had gone deep into their second hour of spin, Control checked his watch again. The pictures should have been handed off. He reached for his cell phone and made a brief, quiet call.

It wouldn't take long, but he had a few minutes. He eased quietly into the hallway. There was a payphone there, which was probably no more secure than yelling. He wasn't much more convinced of the security of his cell phone, no matter what Communications said. But he had to know.

He called Lily's apartment, hung up, called again, in their regular formula. She did not answer. Frowning, he dialed her cell number.

* * *

_Today the Zetra Hall, the Olympic Zetra, went up in flames. The whole world knew about it, it was the Olympic beauty, and now it's going up in flames. The firefighters tried to save it, and our Zika joined them. But it didn't stand a chance. The forces of war don't know anything about love and the desire to save something. They just know how to destroy, burn, take things away. So they wanted Zetra to disappear as well. It makes me sad, Mimmy._

_ I feel as though no one and nothing here will survive. _

_Zlata Filipovic_

_Zlata's Diary – A Child's Life in Sarajevo_

* * *

**Now**

Robert McCall knocked on the apartment door loudly. When there was no answer, he let himself in, deliberately making far more noise than usual. On his list of most foolish ways to die, surprising a war-weary field op was very near the top.

As soon as he closed the door behind him, he could tell he was alone in the apartment. There was no sound, no movement. But there was something more, the feeling of a place that had been abandoned. He swept through the rooms quickly, just to be sure. Lily Romanov was not home.

The bedroom gave him pause. The bed looked as if a fight had taken place there, perhaps an assault. He touched the pillow. The case was still crisp, freshly washed. No one had slept here. No one had had the sort of horrific nightmare that would explain the wantonly disheveled state of the bed. He moved back through the little apartment, looking for more destruction. There was none.

In the living room, he looked at the tote of mail. Only one package was opened. He picked up the book and opened it, retrieved the note that fell out. Mrs. Nabakowski would want her to have this. His eyes narrowed. Who was Mrs. Nabakowski, what had happened to her, and why would she think Lily Romanov would want a cook book?

Unless it was actually a book of cleverly encoded messages …

He shook his head. The pages were much too old to be any useful messages. And if they were, the agent wouldn't have left them on her coffee table.

He looked at the composition books. They looked like journals. They also looked as if they hadn't been opened for years. He did not disturb them.

Robert went into the bathroom. The sink was wet and a bit grimy. The towel on the rod was rumpled and damp. He pulled back the shower curtain. The tub was dry.

Lily had come here. She'd been exhausted, dirty, grieving. She'd opened one package, torn her bed apart, washed her face. But no shower, much less any sleep. No sign that she'd eaten. She'd dropped her backpack and that dingy hat by the door. Traveling light. Maybe not planning to go far.

But where had she gone?

He sat down on the couch and picked up one of the composition books. It was indeed a journal, written by a young woman during the Great War. She was in Poland. Her brothers were missing, probably dead. They expected to be arrest any day, she and her sisters and parents. All the Jews had been arrested, they were coming for the Catholics next …

McCall closed the book and closed his eyes. He was far, far too weary to read another word.

People killed people because they were different. And no matter how often the grief-stricken, guilt-stricken bystanders pledged 'never again', it happened over and over and over.

The telephone at his elbow rang. Robert's eyes narrowed; he made no move to answer it. It rang twice more, then stopped. He waited. After fifteen seconds, the phone rang again. Again, it stopped after three rings. It did not ring again.

McCall's jaw worked side to side, his mouth tight. The ringing phone had been a signal, and not as especially clever one. He could guess who was calling.

A new ring sounded from the door. The backpack. Robert considered, then rose and searched rapidly through the outside pockets until he located her Lily's portable phone. "Hello?" he said.

"McCall?"

"Control."

"What are you doing there?" Control growled very softly. There was noise in the background; he wasn't alone. "Where's the girl?"

"I seem to have misplaced her," Robert answered.

"She's not there?"

"No. She's been here. Vented some frustration. But she's gone."

Control sighed. "Well. She's a grown woman. She can take care of herself."

"I'm not sure of that, Control. I'm not at all sure of that."

There was a very long pause while Control weighed his words. Then, "What do you think's happened to her?"

"I think," Robert said slowly, realizing the truth of his words only as he spoke them, "that she's become a phantom."

"That's impossible."

"I've seen the pictures, Control. What she saw there would be enough to drive you or me over the edge."

There was another long pause. Then, briskly, still quietly, Control said, "I'm coming home. Try to find her. Please."

"I don't know where to look."

"Neither do I," Control snarled. Then, "See if her car's there. If it's gone, she may be at the cabin."

"If not?"

"She'll go to the water."

"Oh, that's very bloody helpful," Robert snorted. "Manhattan is an island, you know. It is surrounded by a bloody lot of water."

"I know," Control answered. His voice was tinged with frustration. "I don't know what else to tell you. It's been such a long time …" He stopped. "Just … try, Robert. Please. I'll be there as soon as I can."

Robert hung up the phone. She'd go to the water. Magnificent. Simply bloody marvelous. Control had been sleeping with the woman for how long now, and he still had no idea where she'd go under duress. And yet he expected Robert to find her, somewhere in the city. If she even was still in the city. Spectacular.

But he would go look anyhow.

He tucked her phone into his pocket.

As he eased the apartment door shut behind him, it occurred to Robert that perhaps his friend wasn't entirely to blame. Because perhaps, Lily Romanov didn't go to a _place_ when her heart was crushed. Perhaps she went to a _person_ instead. Perhaps – likely, in fact – the only comfort Lily had ever found was at Control's side.

And if Control were far away, in another city, what then?

McCall knew the answer as soon as he stepped onto the street. Lily would do what Robert himself would do. She would find solace in the anonymity of the city. She would hide in the shadows, join with the night, and try to survive until morning.

Perhaps by the water. Perhaps.

But even with that clue, it was going to take a bloody miracle to find her.

* * *

_It has taken me all morning to understand why I can suddenly see from my window certain parts of the city I've never been able to see before. The answer is simple and stunning: buildings, walls, branches that always were part of my surrounding landscape have simply vanished. Thus, my universe expands from hour to hour. _

_Zlatko Dizdarević_

_Savajevo – A War Journal_

* * *

**Then**

"I understand," Control said quietly into his phone. "Keep me posted." He put the phone down thoughtfully and sat very still, only his jaw working side to side as he considered this latest news.

"Problem?" Walker asked.

"Yes," Control answered. "Yes." He made his decision, stood up. "I have some calls to make. Then I'm going to Europe. I want to see all my station heads. In Budapest, this weekend."

"But, sir …"

"Make it happen," he said evenly. "Now get out. Close the door."

Walker left, not happily. Control couldn't really blame him. It would be a bitch to arrange, and there was a chance it would expose some of his agents. Couldn't be helped. He needed information, good, fresh, solid information, and he needed it right now.

They had finally, finally gotten NATO to agree to some action. But they needed to make sure their information was absolutely solid. One mistake, and the Western nations would use unreliable intelligence as an excuse to pull back troops and air support.

Finally, finally. And it was only a limited action, but it might be the beginning of more. It might be the beginning of the end of the war.

And though it had played no part in his calculation, calling in all the station heads meant that no one would blink when he called Lily in, too.

"Soon," he said to himself. "Soon." Then he picked up the phone.

* * *

**Now**

It was nearly ten. Robert hesitated at the doorway. But there was light beneath it, and he could hear the TV beyond. He knocked softly and called out, "It's Robert."

Heavy feet moved immediately, and Scott opened the door. "Dad? What's wrong?"

"Nothing, nothing," Robert assured him. "I was just, um, in the neighborhood and I thought I'd stop in to see you for a moment."

Becky struggled up from the couch. She was six months pregnant and just beginning to be awkward. "He's lying, of course."

"Yeah, I know." Scott stepped back to let his father in. "You want a beer or something?"

Robert shook his head. "No, thank you. I can't stay." He couldn't resist crossing to his daughter-in-law and patting her rounded stomach. "How are you, love?" he asked, kissing her on the cheek.

"We're fine," Becky answered cheerfully. "He's just out for his evening walk, actually."

"I'm sorry to have disturbed him," Robert said affectionately.

"It's okay. What's wrong?"

"Nothing," McCall protested. "I just saw your light and thought I'd look in on you."

"That would be more convincing," Scott said, "if we didn't all know Mira was in Virginia until after the holiday."

Robert shook his head. His long-time lover lived just upstairs from his son and daughter-in-law. "I do not just stop in to visit on the way to and from seeing Mira."

"You do, actually," Becky answered.

They were right, of course, and Robert knew it. It was time to abandon pretense. "I'm looking for Lily."

"Lily Romanov?" Scott asked, surprised.

"Yes. You haven't seen her, have you?"

"Tonight? No. I thought she was in the Balkans. I'm glad she's not, though." He gestured towards the television.

A high aerial view showed bombs falling on the fringes of a city. The buildings below looked no bigger than building blocks. It was like watching one of those damnable new video games. There are people in those buildings, Robert thought, and people in that forest. There are people dying, right there on the screen, and no one here even knows it.

He shook his attention away. "She came home today," he explained. "I came to check up on her and she's not home. I thought she might have stopped here in search of a good meal."

Becky was at his side, and she wasn't buying any of it. "What's happened to her?"

"Nothing. Nothing. She just seemed a bit distant when I saw her and I wanted to check on her. That's all."

"Dad."

Robert sighed. "Nothing's happened to her personally. But she witnessed … you'll see it in the papers tomorrow. Perhaps there, tonight." He gestured towards the television. Newspapers, he realized, had already gone out of style. "There was a massacre. It was exceptionally brutal. And she seems to be taking it … personally."

"What did you bring?" Becky asked quietly.

"Hmm?"

"You want me to help to find her. What did you bring?"

Chagrined, Robert drew the telephone out of his pocket. "I don't know if you should. In your … condition."

Becky rolled her eyes and took the phone from him. She turned away, looked out the window. She seemed to be searching. Then she shook her head. "I can't ever read Lily, except when she wants me to. I don't think … if she _wanted_ to be found, I think I could feel that. But she's not wanting. She's just … done."

"That is what I'm afraid of." McCall took the phone back. "I shouldn't have bothered you."

"Dad," Scott protested, "you can come by any time. You know that."

"I do," Robert agreed. He kissed Becky again, gave a quick hug to Scott. "I have to go."

"You'll let us know when you find her?"

"I will."

"Dad," Becky said, "it's okay. She's still got _him_. She won't let go of that."

Robert nodded. "I hope you're right."

* * *

**Then**

Control had been talking to his people, almost continuously, for three straight days.

In truth, he had done far more listening than talking. He had put the word out, through his lieutenants, his couriers, his grapevines that he wanted to hear anything his agents had to say about the Balkans. Facts, opinions, hypothesis, complaints; he wanted them all. He got them. Agents came in from all parts of Europe and made their way secretly to the safe house basement where he'd set up shop. Between coffee and sandwiches, cat naps and one tepid shower, Control listened to them all.

His lieutenants, Simms, Walker, Russo, Solomon, DeWitt, Lisinger, had sat with him for most of the meetings, taking notes, trying to put all the information together. Control made no notes himself. He was already filing the information in his mind. By the time he left Budapest, he had a thorough understanding of the situation. He was ready to brief the military commanders, and also the negotiators, to arm them with facts for the peace talks that would hopefully follow.

He traveled to Paris with his lieutenants, then sent them home. He implied that he had other contacts to make, contacts too sensitive for even their trusted eyes. Then he went back to Budapest, not to the safe house but to a beautiful little inn where he had once met a beautiful young agent.

Henri, at the desk, was grayer than he had been then, and sadder. His son, Control knew, had been killed in a motorcycle accident the year before. The man was suddenly aged by grief. But he greeted Control with much of the warmth and confidential understanding of former days. "Ah, you are here at last. The lady has been asking for you."

Control nodded. "She's upstairs?"

"Yes."

"Thank you."

"Ahh," Henri said, "you must try to get her to eat something."

Control frowned. "That bad?"

The innkeeper nodded. "A strong breeze would carry her away," he said. "I know it is the fashion, but …" He shrugged. "Not my style, I'm afraid. I like a woman to look like a woman." Them quickly, he added, "Oh, but you must not tell her that."

"Thanks for the warning." Control ignored the elevator, strode up the stairs two at a time.

At the door to his room – her room? – he hesitated, then knocked.

"Come in," Lily called absently.

Control pushed the door open. It hadn't been locked. Not like her, but then she'd been expecting him. He closed the door behind him, locked and chained it, before he turned to look at his love.

In the time it took her to cross the room to his arms, Control sent up a brief thought of thanks to Henri for the warning. She was past thin.

She kissed him warmly, deeply. His arms twined around her, familiar and firm, but gentle, careful. Yet for all her thinness, she didn't seem fragile. On the contrary, every inch of her was muscled, solid, like a ballerina he had once dated. He held her a little tighter.

"How were your meetings?" Lily asked, when the surfaced for air.

"Informative," he answered. "But exhausting. I haven't slept for three days."

Lily nodded solemnly. "We should get you to bed right away."

"Exactly what I was thinking." He swept her knees with one hand, lifted her and carried her to the bed.

It had been their pattern for as long as they'd been together, to make love first, then to talk. They could not be alone together without touching, and they could not touch without wanting more. Part of it was lust, part simply impatience. Part, certainly, was habit. But through their long romance, it had always been their way.

Lily seemed more impatient than usual, more passionate, more demanding. Control didn't mind. Their appetites and rhythms had always been similar; it took only minor adjustments, physical and mental, to meet her and match her.

She didn't want to stop, either, until both of them were completely exhausted. Control was not one to complain.

They fell asleep still twined around each other. Nineteen minutes later she began to twitch in his arms, and Control woke instantly and knew she was having a nightmare. If they had not already been on physical contact, he would not have touched her until she was fully awake. But her slender body was still wrapped in his arms, and so he rubbed her back, kissed her forehead. "Lily," he said quietly, firmly against her ear. "Lily, wake up."

She sucked in a sharp breath and went rigid.

"You were having a bad dream," he soothed. "It's all right now."

Lily exhaled, then raised her face to his. "Sorry."

"It's all right."

She kissed him, hard. "Again," she murmured, in a tone that was not precisely a demand, but not a request, either.

"Hmmm." He was not a young man any more. But the hard-bodied little beauty in his arms was very inspirational in her willingness. And with age and experience had also come knowledge; he knew a number of ways to keep his younger lover amused while his own potency returned.

Their second round of love-making was generally slower, gentler, more sensuous, more thoughtful. More intimate. This time the woman had barely slowed down. Raw sexuality seemed to possess her, and the first time had barely dulled the edge of her desires. She wanted more.

He gave her everything he had.

When she had collapsed into sleep again, Control propped him head on his elbow and watched her. With her thin face, her soft straight hair, her features finally relaxed in sleep, she looked like a child in the fading afternoon light. The old guilt sliced through him, tearing open an old wound. He was easily old enough to be her father. His goddaughter was no older than the woman he had just made love to. He would never be able to give her the things a woman of her years wanted and deserved – a house, a family …

… a lover who could keep up with her.

It had never been an issue before. Their sexual desires had always been closely synched. But he was getting older, and she was – according to _Redbook_ – just entering her sexual prime.

Control shook his head. It was foolishness. What they were, he and Lily, was so much more than sex. It was a small fraction of the wholeness of their love. If their balance was changing in bed, they'd make adjustments. They'd get through.

It hurt like hell.

He had always known he was older. He had always known that eventually the years would start to show. He had always thought …

… he should have gone to bullfighter's school, and died a young and virile man.

It hurt, and he hated it. And he hated himself, because he could not bear even to contemplate letting her go, though she might be far happier with a much younger man. At least in bed.

Lily began to twitch again.

Control watched her. Her arms and legs jerked in tiny motions, as if she were dreaming of running. Her eyelids darted back and forth beneath her eyelids. Her lips opened and closed, just slightly. In her dream she was screaming.

"Lily," he said. "Wake up."

She snapped awake again.

After a second of orientation, she turned her head. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be sorry."

Her eyes were desperate. Control understood, suddenly. Even before she moved, he knew what she was going to do next, and why. It was, in a horrible way, a relief. She twined her arms around his neck and drew his face to hers. "Please," she murmured, kissing him deeply.

Control wrapped his arms around her and held her immobile against him. "It won't help, Lily."

She struggled, trying to get free and entice him at the same time. "Please," she said again.

"Lily, Lily." He kissed her warmly but gently, refusing her advances even while he held her. "I could line up teenage boys from here to the end of the block for you. And I would, if I thought it would help. But it won't, love. It won't help. It won't let you sleep."

She sobbed in frustration, trying to push him away. "It will! It does!"

"Lily, stop." He loosened his arms, but wouldn't let her escape entirely. "Listen to me." She tried to roll away and he let her, then rolled after her and wrapped his arms tightly around her again. "Listen. Just listen. I know what you're trying to do, even if you don't. And believe me, all the sex in the world won't let you sleep."

Lily stopped thrashing and began to cry in earnest. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

"Oh, love," he murmured against her hair. "You think you're the only one that's ever tried? I've tried it myself. Anything to feel something, and anything to sleep. I know. I know all about it."

"I'm so tired."

"I know. I know. Just try to sleep, angel. I'm right here. I'll watch over you."

She sniffed, and her felt her body relax in his arms. She wrapped her arms over his. "I'm so sorry."

"Shhh."

After a long moment, Lily said, "I can't stop seeing it."

"The bridge?"

_Night, darkness, but in the headlights of an old truck, a family, the mother trying to shield her baby, the soldier ripping the infant from her arms and tossing it alive over the railing, the thin wail and the splash almost lost beneath the frantic screams of the parents, and the mother lunged towards the rail; the soldier grabbed her shoulder, slit her throat and pushed her after her child, the father moved too late to save her and he was dead, and the brother, and the sister; the soldier was good, he'd had practice, he could shove them towards the rail, kill them before they stopped moving, and let their own momentum carry them over the side, hardly any effort at all …_

She shuddered and rolled towards him. "How do you know about that?"

Control kissed her tear-damp cheeks. "It doesn't matter. Only that I know." His heart broke for her pain. And yet in some wretched corner of his mind he rejoiced; their distance was not about age or sex at all. It was not between them, it was only the world. Only the horror-filled world that drove her back to his arms. "Lily," he said quietly, "don't you think it's time …"

"Don't," she whispered. Her eyes were full of tears again. "Please, please don't. Don't ask me. Not now."

He nodded. "All right. I'm sorry."

"Don't be sorry. I need to know … you still want me here. But … not now."

"All right." He kissed her again, drew her tight against his chest. "Try to sleep, love."


	9. Chapter 9

_ A grenade had landed on our shelter. We had to climb over the dead bodies to get out. Meanwhile the snipers kept shooting at us. _

_ My father was one of those wounded and was taken away to the hospital. We've not seen him since, but I hope that he is still alive, perhaps in one of the detention camps. _

_ I try not to talk about these things, but I get so upset and keep having nightmares about what happened. _

_Kazimir, 13, displaced_

_I Dream of Peace – Images of war by children of former Yugoslavia_

* * *

**Then**

Lily left the hotel, _their_ hotel, before dawn. Five minutes later the phone in Control's room rang.

His heart raced. She was the only one who knew he was here. Something was wrong. She'd been mugged, or hit by a bus, or …

The phone rang three times and then stopped. He counted slowly. Fifteen seconds later it rang again, and he snatched it up. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong," she answered, and there was a smile in her voice, and sorrow as well.

Control frowned, confused. "Lily …"

"Shhh. Just listen. I couldn't say this before, because it would have been too hard to say it and then leave. And don't ask me to come back now, because I can't. But you started to ask, didn't I think. And I do. When this is over, this war or whatever it is, when this is done, I'm coming home for good."

He sat down on the edge of the bed, groping for words. It was what he wanted, what he had always wanted, and it was her choice, finally. She was coming home, she was coming home. But hard behind his elation was absolute terror. If she went back out the now, if he lost her now, when he was so close …

"I have to go," Lily said quietly, before he found got a single word out. "I'll see you soon."

The phone went dead. Control swallowed hard and whispered into it, "I love you." It didn't matter that she didn't hear. She already knew.

His hand shook as he hung up the phone.

* * *

**Now**

The real anchors had arrived. As the earth turned away from the satellite and the real-time picture broke up, the three screens above were suddenly filled with recognizable faces. Somber, reverent gentlemen, solemnly spewing whatever their teleprompters said.

Control was already on his feet when the elder statesman of news said, "And now we're getting breaking new from the AP. I understand that some pictures have surfaced of a mass grave outside of Srebrenica. Unconfirmed rumors have been floating around since July of a massacre there …"

The NATO bombings suddenly had a new perspective. The networks suddenly had a lot more things to talk about.

The spymaster nodded in satisfaction. Exactly what he'd wanted to happen, exactly when he'd wanted it to happen. It was done, out of his hands. Let the chips fall. Let this room full of his esteemed colleagues deal with the aftermath. It was done.

He had something just as important, and far more personal, to deal with. His heart felt like a frozen fist in his chest. Where was she?

Without comment, without excuse, he left the conference room. His rudeness was so habitual that no one even noticed.

Almost no one. Somehow, Control was not surprised to find Simms at his elbow in the hallway. "Sir? Is there a problem?" the lieutenant asked.

"I need to get back to New York," he said briskly. Then he almost smiled. "Or, more to the point, I need to get out of Washington."

Simms gestured back towards the meeting. "Should I get the others?"

"No. It's not a physical threat. Just a political one."

"Ah … sir? Aren't those usually worse?"

Control did smile then, grimly. This one, of all his aides, seemed to be the brightest.

And therefore, of course, the most dangerous.

He stabbed the elevator button in the lobby. "There will be a car out front in five minutes," he said. "If you want to come back with me, be in it. If you stay," he said, turning in the elevator, "you'll end up explaining those pictures to a great many people."

"But I haven't even seen the pictures. I don't know anything about them."

Control nodded sagely. "I know.

From the look on his face, Simms had a lot more questions. But he swallowed them and hurried away before the elevator door closed.

* * *

_The City Maternity Hospital has burned down. I was born there. Hundreds of thousands of new babies, new residents of Sarajevo, won't have the luck to be born in this maternity hospital now. It was new. The fire devoured everything. The mothers and babies were saved. When the fire broke out two women were giving birth. The babies are alive. God, people get killed here, they die here, they disappear, things go up in flames here, and out of the flames, new lives are born. _

_Zlata Filipovic_

_Zlata's Diary – A Child's Life in Sarajevo_

* * *

**Then**

A baby cried, thin and angry, and for an instant between sleep and waking Lily thought it was hers.

"I'm coming," she muttered grumpily as she shifted to roll out of bed.

At her first physical motion, instinct grabbed her and pinned her down.

Lily Romanov came fully awake.

The baby cried again, muffled, fifty yards off, uphill and to her left. Voices muttered. The ground beneath her was soft, matted with thick grass and fallen leaves.

Her child had never cried, not even once.

What the hell am I doing here? she wondered, not for the first time.

A man said, "Let's get moving."

At the top of the hill, people began to move, sluggishly, noisily. Lily stayed where she was. It would take most of an hour for them to be ready to move. Babies, old people, and everything the able-bodied could carry from their homes. She could sleep another half hour, maybe three quarters, with no danger of being left behind. Hell, she could sleep until noon and catch up with them in an hour.

She was so tired, and the ditch was so very comfortable.

As she drifted back towards sleep, she heard the rumble of truck engines, or thunder, or mortars from the north. The refugees never paused in their preparations to move, and Lily didn't bother to stay awake to see if it was repeated.

Men's voices woke her again twenty-eight minutes later. They were directly above her on the bank. Smoking; she could smell the wretched, rotting odor of locally-made cigarettes. The men were muttering darkly, something about Blue Helmets. One voice was quite excited. The others were unimpressed.

As long as she didn't move, Lily knew, the men couldn't see her. She was curled under her black coat half-way down the side of a ditch. She lay against a scrubby bush, her face turned away from them, some dead leaves thrown onto her back. Even with the rising dawn, she should be invisible. If they saw her at all, they would think she was a corpse.

They still might climb down to steal the coat, she mused.

And these were the good guys.

More muttering about the UN troops. The usual bitching, Lily thought, and drifted away again.

Something about trucks. The Dutch. Helmets. Something about a raid. A robbery. Trucks stolen.

Lily snapped to full consciousness. _What_?

The smokers above called to others. More shuffling, the snap of a solid steel lighter, more cheap smoke on the morning air.

The excited voice told his story again. Blue Helmets had lost several trucks – and their pretty blue helmets, too. Stolen right out of their camp. Rumor was that a Serb militia had snagged them. Maybe paid off a sentry or two. No one knew why. Maybe they planned to sell them back to the UN.

Like hell, Lily thought. Trucks, maybe. But helmets? Stealing the helmets meant they had a whole different game plan.

_Where?_ her brain screamed.

The men above asked the same thing.

The excited one said one word: Srebrenica.

* * *

_The images don't go away. Bosnian Muslim men being herded onto trucks for execution. Women and children sobbing, pleading for protection. Piles of corpses. Gloating Serb forces. For the Dutch troops who were unwilling witnesses to the 1995 massacre at Srebrenica, the memories are made harder by a nagging question: Could they have done more to stop it?_

_ Mandated to defend the U.N.-declared "safe haven", the Dutch stood by as the carnage unfolded, and has been accused by some of sharing responsibility for the worst massacre in Europe since World War II._

_ Nearly 8,000 people died after Bosnian Serbs overran the enclave ten years ago Monday. While the Dutch watched, the Serbs separated Muslim men and boys from their families, loaded them into trucks and took them away for execution. The U.N. war crimes tribunal in The Hague has ruled it was a genocide. _

_ Official enquiries have cleared the 370 troops of blame. Overwhelmed, undermanned, under-armed and with orders to shoot only in self defense, they were helpless to stop the onslaught, independent investigators have concluded. _

_ But the debate rages on, and no one has walked away unscathed. There are soldiers suffering nightmares or sleeplessness, depression and guilt. Many can't hold down jobs. Drugs and alcohol are recurring problems. Holland's national Veterans Institute says it is giving psychological help to about 100 soldiers – more than a quarter of those who were there. _

_ Cpl. Andries Pooringa was one. Poortinga, one of 171 soldiers whose accounts appeared in "Memories of Srebrenica," published last month, saw tens of thousands of refugees cramming into the U.N. camp at Potocari, a suburb of Srebrenica, as the Serbs pounded the area from the surrounding hills. _

_ For days, the battalion had waited for reinforcements and air support. None came. One soldier already had been killed by Muslim forces. By the time the Serb attack started on July 11, the soldiers' nerves were shot. _

_ "All those people … screaming and crying. A truck, normally fit for 18 people, was packed with 200 refugees. We helped them from the truck and gave them a place in the factory hall," Poortinga recalled in the book. _

_ "It was hell. I did my best, but after a while I collapsed. The shouting became louder and louder. The shooting came close, grenades fell, dust came from the ceiling. I found myself crying like a baby. I am not a baby at all, but then I was like a child." _

_Arthur Max _

_"Dutch Peacekeepers Haunted by Srebrenica" _

* * *

**Now**

In the real world it would have been dark.

In New York, it was only as dark as the neon would allow. In some places it was still as bright as noon. But there were shadows now, deep and sweet. Ten steps out of the blinding lights and a person could disappear into the dark.

If she looked ahead, if she planned, she could move from dark to dark and never be touched by the light at all.

And if she had no particular destination, she could simply wade in the stream of shadows wherever they wanted to lead her.

She could go home. She could go to her friends. She could be held, washed, fed, comforted. But she didn't want those things, any more than she wanted the safety of the city lights. The darkness was her home again, and the creatures of the night, human and not, were her family. They were all she wanted.

Her soul had gone dark, and the dark of the city welcomed her as its own.

* * *

_Ljubljana, Slovenia, June 2 – almost 10 years after the massacre of more than 7,000 Muslim men and boys by Serbian security forces in Srebrenica, a video has surfaced that presents graphic details of their fate. Several people in the video were arrested as a result, the Serbian prime minister said Thursday. _

_ The tape – shown at the International Criminal Tribunal for the Former Yugoslavia in The Hague on Wednesday and rebroadcast on Serbian television on Thursday – shows the killing of six Muslim men by members of a Serbian paramilitary police unit._

_ …_

_ The killings, which began July 11, 1995, is a designated United Nations safe haven overrun by Serbs, are widely acknowledged to be the worst atrocities committed in Europe since World War II. _

_ The massacre represented the final push by Bosnian Serb forces to forge an "Ethnically pure" state within Bosnia and end the war on their own terms. The atrocities ultimately prompted Western military intervention to end the conflict. _

_ …_

_ The video shows a group of paramilitary police, called the Scorpions, being blessed by a Serbian Orthodox priest before they start their mission. The video, shot by a member of the group, shows six emaciated men being removed from a canvas covered military truck driven from Srebrenica to Treskavica, a mountain in Serbian-held territory south of Sarajevo. _

_ Two are taken away and tortured in a house. Eventually all six men are lined up with their hands tied behind their backs and shot with machine guns. _

_ At one point the man behind the camera says his batteries are running out but tells the killers that he will keep recording for as long as he can. _

_Nicolas Wood, _

_"Video of Serbs in Srebrenica Massacre Leads to Arrests" _

* * *

**Then**

The spies were really leaving this time. Definitely, absolutely. Probably.

They had been leaving before, several times, and they had not left yet. But this time, according to the intelligence they'd been given, this time it was for real.

This time the bombs would actually fall, and they would not stop until there was peace.

Trusting that news warily, the spies moved through their safe houses, erasing traces of their presence. Anything that could not be easily carried out had to be disposed of. Clothes, food, water, fuel, could all be left behind for scavengers. But anything mission critical, anything that pointed to what their missions had been, had to be taken or destroyed.

The house in the center of town had a high fence around the back yard, built ostensibly to protect the fruit-bearing trees in the garden from poaching. In reality, it allowed them to dig a hole to bury the things that would not burn, things like spent shell casings and damaged weapons. In time, certainly, someone would dig it all up and identify them as relics of spies. But by then it wouldn't matter.

Beside the pit was a fire barrel. Things like ammunition boxes and surveillance notes, maps and charts, burned readily.

Lily was tending the burn barrel, pushing the papers with a stick to be sure they turned completely to ash, when Mickey Kostmayer caught up with her. "I need a favor," he said by way of greeting.

Romanov nodded. "It's all been arranged."

"What has?"

"Getting Anne out of the country. She's got a seat right next to me. I'll take care of her."

"Good." Mickey nodded. "That wasn't the favor."

"Oh." Lily dumped another pile of papers onto the fire. "You want me to get your orders changed."

"No." Kostmayer was one of half a dozen agents who were staying in the city. The skeleton crew would shelter from the bombing as well as they could, report back results when they were able. The Army called it 'danger close', calling in air strikes from your own planes on your own position. But a few men, able and nimble, could manage it far better than a whole cadre of agents. Mickey had volunteered to stay, and he wasn't particularly worried about his survival. He'd been through worse.

"What do you want, Mickey?"

"I want to get married."

Lily looked at him sidelong. "We've been all through this, Mickey. You know I love you, but I've always considered you more of a brother than …"

"Lily. You know what I mean."

"No, actually, I don't."

Kostmayer shifted his feet. Then he picked up another stack of papers and dumped them into the barrel. "I want to marry Annie before she leaves the country."

Lily stared at him. "Uh-huh."

"Lil."

"Shall I quote statistics here? The life expectancy of a marriage entered into under battlefield conditions is …"

"Shut up. Just shut up and find me a preacher, all right?"

She shook her head. "This is a bad idea ten different ways."

"Just do it."

"The first of which is, she'll think you're doing it because you think you're going to die here."

Mickey scowled. "I'm not going to die here."

"Then what's your rush?"

He kicked the barrel, causing the papers to shift and shoot sparks and ash up towards them. "I just want it to be official, okay? I just … just do it, Romanov. For once in your life, just do it because I asked you to."

Lily stared at him, still openly skeptical. "Please?" she prompted.

"Pleassssssssse," Mickey repeated through gritted teeth.

She nodded slowly. "All right. Have her here at sundown." She handed Mickey the stick. "And take care of the rest of those papers for me."

"Thanks, Lil."

"Uh-huh. Don't die here." She trotted off to make arrangements.

* * *

_The shooting really has died down. I can hear the whine of electric saws. The winter and the power saws have condemned the old trees, shaded walks and parks that made Sarajevo so pretty. _

_ I was sad today. I couldn't bear the thought of the trees disappearing from my park. They've been condemned, God, all the things my park has had to go through! The children have left it, Nina forever, and now the linden, birch, and plane trees are leaving it forever, too. Sad. I couldn't watch, and I can't write any more._

_Zlata Filipovic_

_Zlata's Diary – A Child's Life in Sarajevo_

* * *

**Then**

The aide worker was from Belgium. He'd been ordained in a small Protestant denomination in 1983 and had been feeding the hungry of the world ever since.

He didn't know the bride or the groom. But he knew the young woman who'd brought him unexpected parcels of food for two years. She had never asked for anything in return. He was glad, though puzzled, to be able to help her.

The yard was ringed with a high fence and smelled of smoke. The fruit trees had been hacked badly for firewood, like every other tree in the city. There was a big patch of freshly-turned dirt in the corner. But there were also candles everywhere, trays of fruit and sandwiches, pitchers of beer. In another time, it might have been a lovely casual party.

In another time, the background music would not have been punctuated by the dull thud of mortars or the sharp reports of sniper fire.

In another time, the bride and groom would not have been wearing blue jeans. Possibly they would not have been arguing in the corner, either.

"Just tell me why," Anne insisted.

"There is no why," Kostmayer answered, again. "I just want to do this before you leave."

"Is it that dangerous to stay? Do you think you're not coming home?"

Mickey ran his hand over his face, exasperated. "Annie, look. For once in my life I'm being spontaneous. Could you just go with it? I promise, when I get back to New York we can have any kind of big blow-out bash you want."

"It's not about having a big wedding …"

"Annie. Please. Just do this for me." He shrugged. "Then I can put you on the Company health plan, okay?"

"I didn't know they had one."

"It's not very good," he allowed.

The minister/aide worker looked at his watch, and then went over to confer with Lily. She poured him another glass of beer and got him a sandwich. Then she ambled over to where Mickey and Anne stood.

"His convoy leaves at midnight," Lily announced. "Are we doing this or not?"

Mickey said, "Anne, come on. Just do this."

The potential bride bristled. "Just tell me why and I will."

"There _is no why_. All right? I just want to get married before you leave. All right?"

Lily took Anne's arm. "C'mere a minute." She pulled her away from Mickey, stood very close and whispered in her ear. "You want to marry him or not?"

"Yes," Anne said with certainty. "But I don't understand what …"

"Anne, listen to me. Tomorrow you're leaving and he's not. Whatever's going on in his head – and don't ask me, I have no clue – it doesn't matter. What matters is, tomorrow night when you're in a nice hot shower wondering where the hell he is, what's going to make you feel better? That you married him because he asked you to, or that you didn't because he couldn't explain it?"

Anne stared at her. "Do you think he's going to die here?"

"No."

"Really?"

"Yes."

"Then what …"

"Anne, we don't have a lot of time here. You've been engaged forever. You want to be married to him or not?"

"I … yes."

"Good girl." Lily turned briskly and gestured to the minister. "Let's roll."

Anne left her side and slipped into Mickey's arms. "You promise me," she said firmly. "You promise me that you're coming home."

Kostmayer kissed her deeply. "Hell, yeah, I'm coming home."

* * *

**Now**

On one level, having Simms at his side all the way back to New York annoyed Control. It meant that he had to stay in character, to keep pretending that his biggest worry was the situation in the Balkans and the world's response to it. It meant that he had to remain Control throughout the trip.

On another level, he was glad for the distraction. It gave him an excuse to remain Control; he didn't have to slip out of his protective shell and become just the man beneath. The man whose lover, broken and sick, was lost somewhere in the city, somewhere in her own mind.

Phantom, Robert had said. Robert would not use such a word lightly.

She'd come home to him, finally, and he could feel her slipping away from him in an entirely new way.

He didn't have to guess what Lily Romanov was going through. He knew. He'd been there. It made him sick to his very heart to know that she was there now. He'd done everything he could think of to protect her from that.

Everything, of course, short of just telling her to come home. He had let her risk her soul, rather than risk her resentment of him. And she had broken herself, lost herself.

_ She that was so proud and wild,_

_ Flippant, arrogant and free,_

_She that had no need of me,_

_Is a little lonely child_

_ Lost in Hell …_

As the plane left the runway, its engines straining with familiar desperation for altitude, Control closed his eyes. He found himself urging it on, praying for a tail wind, anything that would get him home sooner. Give me five less minutes, he begged. Just five. Five minutes might make all the difference.

He had to find her.

* * *

**Then**

After the wedding, Lily had led them upstairs to one of the rooms over the café. It was as dreary as everything else in the town, but it had been freshly scrubbed. There were tall candles scattered about, a heavy black-out drape over the window, and a brand-new dead-bolt lock on the inside of the door.

"The honeymoon suite," Mickey observed dryly.

Lily shrugged. "You're the one who had to get married in the middle of the war. See you in the morning." She went out, closing the door firmly.

He shot the bolt behind her. "This is not exactly what I had in mind."

Anne sat on the edge of the bed and bounced experimentally. "They tried, Mickey."

"I know." He shook his head. "This is just like the place we spent our first wedding night."

They had been teenagers, broke, and expecting a baby. Mickey had joined the Navy, and they had three days together in Anne's cousin's rat-trap apartment before he went to boot camp.

They weren't broke now, or teens, or expecting. But tomorrow, or the next day at the latest, they would be apart again.

"Things could change," Anne said.

"Hmm?"

"The air strikes," she explained. "They've been called before and they didn't happen. The Serbs might back down again."

Kostmayer shook his head. "Sure, maybe. We'll see."

"Mickey."

He was still leaning against the door, still hating the room. "What?"

"Promise me you're not going to die here."

Mickey looked her straight in the eye. "I'm not going to die here."

Anne nodded. "Then come over here," she said, patting the bed beside her, "and make me believe it."

He didn't like the room, and he didn't like the situation. And there was some chance a shell would bounce right through the ceiling and kill them both at any moment. But Mickey Kostmayer had always been a great believer in living for the moment. Slowly, a twitch started at the corner of his mouth and grew into a crooked grin. "Over … there?" he asked timidly.

"Over here," Anne said reassuringly.

He checked the new lock once more before he strolled insouciantly across the room.


	10. Chapter 10

_ Families buried the skeletal remains of Srebrenica victims on Monday at the 10__th__ anniversary of the massacre and the West acknowledged its failure to prevent Europe's worst atrocity in 50 years. _

_ Thousands of men form long rows, passing the 610 green-draped coffins one by one above their heads to freshly-dug graves where women in white headscarves waited by wooden markers, many weeping or silently praying. _

_ Each narrow, cylindrical box was tagged with a number and a name. Each was light, containing only bones painstakingly identified by DNA analysis. Each family buried its own, shifting the sodden earth with shovels, buckets or by hand. _

_ The dead had lain for years in hidden pits where they were flung by Bosnian Serb troops in July 2005 after the systematic slaughter of 8,000 unarmed Muslim men and boys taken from what was supposed to be a U.N.-protected "safe area."_

_ "Srebrenica was the failure of NATO, of the West, of peacekeeping and of the United Nations. It was a tragedy that should never be allowed to happen again," said former U.S. Balkans envoy Richard Holbrooke._

_ Monday's funerals raise the number of identified and buried victims to about 2,000. There are 7,000 body bags with remains still to be identified and 20 more mass graves await excavation._

_Daria Sito-Sucic and Maja Zuvela _

_"Bosnian grief, Western regret at Srebrenica"_

* * *

**Then**

She had promised to try to get them twelve hours, but when the knock at the door came, six hours later, Kostmayer knew at once who it was. He swore, slid from beneath the surprisingly clean sheets and into his shorts. "Be right back," he whispered, though he knew Anne was wide awake.

He unlocked the door and stepped into the dim hallway. "This better be good."

Lily gestured and he pulled the door shut. She leaned close, spoke softly. "We found it."

"The dump?" He couldn't bring himself to call it a grave.

"Yes."

"Shit." He rubbed his hand over his face. He needed a shower and a shave. "What's the play?"

Lily looked pointedly past him down the hall. "The boss wants pictures."

"Sure he does."

"We have cameras," she offered. "We can cover it."

They stood very quietly, very close. Sharing air, sharing the same thoughts. Finally, Mickey nodded. "Let me talk to her."

As he turned for the door, Lily touched his arm. "It's bad, Mickey."

"We knew it would be. I'll meet you downstairs."

Anne had already scrambled into her clothes and was waiting on the edge of the bed. "What is it?"

Mickey sat down next to her and kissed her hard. "They found something."

"The graves?"

"Yes."

Anne waited. "Can we go there?"

"If you go," Mickey said slowly, "they'll probably be the most important pictures you ever take in your life."

"I know."

"But you'll never be able to sleep through the night again."

Anne studied him – her husband, again, finally – for a long moment. There was grief in his eyes, and great weariness. Concern for her. But he was not telling her she couldn't go. He was only telling her what it would cost.

"Are you going?" she asked softly.

"I have to."

"Then I can go. If you're with me, I can go."

Mickey nodded, with resignation. "Get your stuff together. I don't think you're coming back here."

* * *

**Now**

McCall stared at TV screen. It was the top of the hour again, one in the morning, and the anchor was starting to wither. The words he read from his teleprompter had already been read more than a dozen times, and he was losing his ability to put any new emphasis on them.

NATO bombs were falling in the Balkans, and there were new startling horrifying pictures …

McCall looked away. He finished his drink, thunked his glass down on the bar.

Pete O'Phelan said, "One more?"

"No," Robert sighed. "I think I've had enough."

She gestured towards the television. "We knew it was coming."

"Oh, yes. Yes, we did. And the knowing doesn't help one bit."

His old friend folded her arms on the bar. It was Friday night, a holiday weekend, and the place was crowded. She acted like he was her only customer. "How can I help, Robert?"

"You can produce Lily Romanov for me." He'd been driving around for hours, mostly along the waterfronts. O'Phelans had been a forlorn hope; he didn't really think the agent would be there. He just needed a drink.

Pete's eyebrow rose. "Is she missing?"

"Yes. No. I don't know. She flew back with Anne Keller. And those pictures. And she seems to have vanished."

"Have you checked her apartment?"

"Yes. She's been there, but she's not there now. Her car's still in the garage."

"The office?"

Robert shook his head. "I don't think she's really in any danger. But," he gestured towards the television, "she was there. And on top of everything else she's been through … I don't know, Pete. I'd just be happier if I knew where she was."

"You're seeing yourself."

"I'm not. I just … " He stopped. "Perhaps you're right. Perhaps I am."

Pete nodded. "You're not going to find her in here, Robert."

"I know. I know." He stood up. "If she does turn up here, you'll call me?"

"Right away."

"Good. Thank you." He kissed Pete on the cheek and went out to the streets again, in search of Lily and in search of himself.

* * *

_August 18, 1995_

_The Christian Science Monitor_

_Evidence Indicates Bosnia Massacre_

_NOVA KASABA, BOSNIA-HERZEGOVINA – An on-the spot investigation by The Christian Science Monitor has uncovered strong evidence that a massacre of Bosnian Muslim prisoners took place last month. _

_A Monitor reporter, traveling without the permission of rebel Bosnian Serbs, looked into charges by American officials that hundred, perhaps thousands, of Muslims were killed by the Serbs after they overran two UN-protected "safe areas."_

_The Serbs deny the US charges, which were based on spy-satellite photos._

_The visit by this reporter was the first by a Western journalist to the site of the alleged atrocities near the former safe areas of Srebrenica and Zepa. The physical evidence was grim and convincing: _

_At one site shown in the spy photos this reporter saw what appeared to be a decomposing human leg protruding from the freshly turned dirt. _

_Large, empty ammunition boxes littered the open field where the ground had recently been dug._

_Diplomas, photos, and other personal effects of Srebrenica Muslims were scattered near the areas of disturbed earth._

_At a soccer stadium in a nearby town, human feces, blood, and other evidence indicated large numbers of persons were confined, and perhaps shot. _

_UN officials estimate that 4,000 to 6,000 Muslim men are still missing in the wake of the Srebrenica and Zepa assaults. So far there is little indication that these men are being held prisoner. Dozens of local Bosnian Serb civilians and soldiers, most of them unaware they were speaking to a foreign journalist's translator, said they heard nothing about a large group of captives from the former enclaves. _

_David Rhode, _

_"Evidence Indicates Bosnia Massacre"_

* * *

**Then**

The sun was just starting to rise when the truck finally stopped. They were in the deep woods, but no birds sang here to greet the dawn. There was only the whisper of leaves on the air, and the smell.

There were seven of them. Lily drove; with her in the cab was Nancy Campbell, a young courier Anne barely knew. Anne rode in the bed of the truck with Mickey's arm around her shoulder the whole way. Jacob Stock was with them, and two other men she didn't know at all. They all looked alike. Silent and pale and utterly exhausted.

Lily said, "Stay with the truck," to the other woman and started into the woods.

Behind her, the younger courier protested. "I want to come with you."

"Stay with the fucking truck!" Romanov snarled. Then she disappeared into the brush, up a bank. Anne and the men scrambled after her.

It wasn't a far walk. Just through a little stand of trees and over a low ridge. There was a valley below them, cleared for farming, and the dirt was churned in uneven heaps. On the far side, trucks had worn a rut through the tall grass in the direction of the enclave.

The smell was intense. The silence was oppressive.

There were trenches filled with bodies, as if they had begun the massacre in a very orderly fashion. Then the bodies were merely piled. Others were scattered, left where they were killed.

Mickey pointed to the two strange men. "There, and there. Don't let anybody sneak up on us." They moved into the trees, glad to be away. To Stock, he said, quietly, "Let's try to get an estimate, at least." Stock nodded and started to the north side of the mass grave.

He put his hand on Anne's elbow. "Annie? We need pictures. If you can't take them, give the camera to Lily. We have to have the pictures, or none of this ever happened."

She stared at him, in shock. His eyes, his warm and weary eyes, reached her in a way that nothing else could have. And his words. The most important pictures of her life. And of _their_ lives, too. Without her pictures, perhaps no one would ever believe what had happened here.

An old man, with his arms around a small boy. His grandson? But his frail thin body could not protect the child. His wasted arms had only given a last moment of shelter, to let the child know he had not died alone.

She took a deep breath, mourning the smell of waste in the air, and she got out her camera.

She was aware, vaguely, that Lily was at her side. That the courier stayed with her, guided her, just as she had done in Berlin a million years ago. Somewhere, it registered that the agent was weeping. But she didn't have time to feel it. There were only the pictures, and the sudden sense that they didn't have much time.

The trenches, the center of the killing. Organized, orderly.

Out from the trenches, more chaotic. More violent. Half a dozen teenagers heaped together who had not been shot. They looked as if they'd been beaten to death.

A line of smaller boys, all stabbed.

The last in the line had had his head severed crudely from his body. The bones of his spine shone white in the rising sun. His eyes were open, looking towards the trees, looking for rescue that never came, perhaps, or just looking towards home. His eyes were brilliant green.

Not even birds sang here.

And then Lily shouted, "God damn it, don't!"

Anne spun, the camera still clicking in her hands. Fifty yards away, at the top of the ridge, Nancy Campbell stood, frozen in horror. Just looking.

The young woman did not look at the other agents, even when Lily shouted again. The loudness of her voice seemed shocking, and Anne could not understand why she was yelling until Campbell's hand came up, gloved in black …

… no, not gloved …

Mickey shouted, too, and they were both running, he and Lily, but the ground was too soft and the ridge was too far and the woman didn't hesitate, didn't slow, and Anne's camera clicked of its own accord as the agent brought the gun up to her head and simply pulled the trigger.

* * *

_November 16, 1995_

_The Christian Science Monitor_

_Graves Found that Confirm Bosnia Massacre_

_SAHANICI, BOSNIA-HERZEGOVINA – From 100 yards away, the freshly turned earth of the field appeared to be covered with haphazard dots. Five feet away, the dots became empty shoes, shattered eyeglasses, and decaying clothing._

_In the woods nearby, three canes and a crutch jutted from a mildewing heap of more than 100 windbreakers, sweatshirts and leather jackets. No evidence of battles having been fought was found. _

_The forlorn debris and areas of fresh digging, discovered by the Monitor on Oct. 29, are the most specific and convincing evidence yet that Bosnian Serb forces massacred thousands of Muslim civilians – including the elderly and crippled – after the fall of the UN "safe area" of Srebrenica. _

_Bosnian Serbs say no massacres occurred and the graves are filled with Muslim soldiers killed in combat. But the crutch that was found is something no combatant would lean on. The three wooden canes are supports no soldiers would need. _

_The Monitor has visited four of six possible mass grave sites identified by US spy planes and satellites around the fallen Muslim enclave of Srebrenica. At each site, human remains, documents from Srebrenica, Muslim identity cards, personal photos with Muslim names on them, or civilian clothing have been found. _

_Europe's worst massacre of civilians since World War II was apparently carried out with brutal efficiency on the nights of July 14, 15 and 16, as nine survivors interviewed by the Monitor in September say it did. Bosnian Serb military commander Gen. Ratko Mladic, whom eyewitnesses place at this and three other execution sites, apparently ordered the cold-blooded executions of as many as 5,000 Muslim prisoners. _

_…_

_US intelligence officials announced last week that Bosnian Serbs have already tried to destroy evidence at one of the mass graves last month and could be tampering with others now._

_The US has had photographic evidence of six graves around Srebrenica since late July and US agents may have visited the sites to confirm that they are not the results of agriculture or construction work, according to intelligence officials. US officials estimate that six graves are large enough to hold up to 2,700 bodies._

_The Bosnian Serbs have repeatedly refused to grant the UN, tribunal investigators, and journalists free access to the area around Srebrenica since the enclave fell. Using pinpoint locations obtained from US-based intelligence sources, the Monitor visited the Sahanici area for three hours on Oct. 29 without the permission of Bosnian Serb authorities. _

_This correspondent changed the date of issue on a Bosnian Serb press accreditation from 19/12/94 to 29/10/95 and used it to pass through Bosnian Serb checkpoints and reach the area. This correspondent was arrested at the execution site by Bosnian Serb police, stripped of all documents and photos taken of the area, accused of espionage, and jailed for 10 days. _

_David Rohde, _

_"Graves Found That Confirm Bosnia Massacre"_

* * *

**Now**

Robert McCall drove slowly in the far right lane, with half an eye on the traffic and the other on the people to the sides. He barely noticed the patrol car the first time it passed him. The second time it went by, more slowly, Robert realized that the officer in the passenger seat was staring pointedly at him.

He was going to get arrested if he kept this up.

McCall waved reassuringly to the officer and turned the next corner. When he saw a parking space, he slid the Jaguar into it and brought out a road map. As he'd expected, the patrol car passed him one more time.

He put the map away as soon as they were gone. This was ridiculous. He was looking for one woman in a city of millions. The proverbial needle in the haystack.

And if this particular needle didn't want to be found, she was more than capable of utterly vanishing.

Robert rubbed his eyes. It was late. Control should be back in the city soon. Lily was his problem, wasn't she? Robert wouldn't be out here, risking life and limb and wrath of police, were not Lily Romanov his old friend's lover. Would he?

He would, Robert admitted to himself. If only because he had been in the darkness where Lily Romanov now walked, he would be here.

He took a deep breath and moved the car into traffic again.

For all his attention, he nearly missed her. He would have, if not for the baseball cap. She was sitting alone at a plastic table on the sidewalk in front of a coffee shop. The red hat had been replaced with a black one, the brim pulled low over her face, but it was enough. She still had the same clothes on.

There was not, of course, a convenient parking space. If he went far looking for one, Robert feared that the woman would vanish. He snapped the Jaguar around the corner and parked in the mouth of an alley.

Even in those few seconds, he feared she would leave. But when he walked back to the coffee shop, she was waiting for him, her hands wrapped around a mug. "I ordered you a decaf espresso," she announced.

Robert sat in the plastic chair across from her. "Thank you."

They were silent until the waiter had come and gone. Then McCall said, "Let me help you."

"How?" Her face was blank, expressionless. Eerily calm. He'd seen this look on her before. Even her body language gave away nothing.

How, indeed, Robert thought. "A hot shower and a real meal, for starters," he said with more confidence than he felt. "And in the morning, I know a psychiatrist you can talk with …"

"And lie to?"

"I'm sure the Company has people."

Lily shook her head.

"I've seen the pictures, Lily. I understand how you must …"

The woman held up her hand. "Robert, can we just pretend?"

"Pardon?"

"Just pretend," she repeated. "You pretend that you've just given some lovely, eloquent speech about serving the greater good, about sacrificing our individual lives to help the downtrodden of the world. Or maybe about how freedom can emerge from chaos and horror. How people are at their hearts good, and how the evil of a few men will ultimately be overcome by the overwhelming good of the world. Whatever words of encouragement you're about to come up with, let's pretend you've already said that. And I'll pretend that I've taken your words of wisdom to heart and I have a new perspective on the total cluster fuck that has been Bosnia. Can we just do that and skip the whole conversation?"

If her words had had any emotion, Robert could have been hurt or angry or defensive. But because her voice remained flat, emotionless, he could not respond with emotion. In cold logic – she was exactly right. He shrugged helplessly. "Then how can I help you?"

She looked at him steadily. Her eyes were a thousand miles and a thousand years away.

McCall sighed. "Control's on his way back," he sad quietly. There was a barest, briefest flicker of feeling in her eyes. "Can I at least tell him where to find you?"

She sipped her coffee slowly. "There is a place he used to go with his father …"

"To watch the ships come in." Robert nodded. "I know the place."

She drained her cup and put it down. "I'm sorry, Robert."

"Don't be sorry, my dear. What you've been through, what you've seen these past days …"

"You're about to get a parking ticket."

McCall twisted around swiftly. A parking officer was standing behind the Jaguar, writing on his little ticket pad. "Bloody hell." He twisted back around as he climbed to his feet.

Lily Romanov was gone.

* * *

_Cut off thine hair, O Jerusalem, and cast it away, and take up a lamentation on high places; for the LORD hath rejected and forsaken the generation of his wrath._

_Jeremiah 7:29_

* * *

**Then**

They rolled the body in a tarp and put it in the bed of the truck.

"You drive," Mickey said.

"No," Lily answered. She rubbed her eyes impatiently. "I'll stay with her."

She climbed into the truck bed and sat with her back against the cab, her legs stretched out next to the canvas-wrapped body. In the east, the sky was brilliant orange. Birds finally sang, shyly, in the trees.

The wind shifted and the smell of the bodies drifted gently past her. Lily shuddered. The boy, her beautiful friendly green-eyed boy, was somewhere in that scent.

The truck started and bounced gently away. Lily looked at the tarp. The bumps in the road jostled the body, making it look like the young courier was sleeping restlessly under the covers. Nancy Campbell had been her trainee. They'd never been especially close, but they'd spent a lot of time together. There had been a time when Lily could have said one word and kept the girl behind a desk for the rest of her life. It might have been a much longer life.

Lily wanted to feel guilt. Or rage. Or grief. Or anything at all.

She had wept at the grave, unashamed, almost unnoticed. But here, with Nancy Campbell's body beside her, her eyes were dry. She felt hollow, cold. Empty.

She knew the feeling, the lack of feeling, much too well.

Lily closed her eyes. For a moment she was a child again. Alone by a dark road. Wounded as no child ever should be. A fire blazed behind her, gasoline fed, but she did not look back. Her father was dead in the fire. She was alone in the world. And she felt – nothing.

Just walk, just keep walking. Don't feel. Don't worry that you don't feel. Just walk. Just live.

Her head itched and she scratched it absently. Something came off under her nail. She brought her hand down and examined her fingertips. It didn't surprise her to find a tiny black bug there. She scratched again. Then she scratched with both hands.

The bottom of the tarp beside her grew dark with moisture. A good portion of Nancy Campbell's blood was still in the field where she'd died. The rest was now seeping onto the floor of the old truck bed.

Lily's hair hadn't been cut for months. It was as long as it had ever been, nearly to her waist, and it was back to its original color, a pale brown. The ends were badly split. She looked at her hands. Both had small black specks under the nails, and white nits, and specks of red.

"This is ridiculous," Lily snarled to herself. She gathered up the ends of her hair in one hand, twisted it swiftly until it started to knot on itself, drew out her knife and hacked it away.


	11. Chapter 11

_ A battle between good and evil has been joined here. Contrary to what the world's human, political, and military "Great Powerless Powers" have to say, what is at present happening in Bosnia has nothing to do with nationality or with religion, languages, or heritage. Here the gates of Hell have opened, and out of the darkness have emerged monsters – worse than monsters – capable of raping six-year-old girls, of burning people alive, of destroying age-old monuments. _

_ But by destroying the mosques of Ferhadija and Arnaudija, they have not only destroyed a cultural heritage of Islam: they have annihilated the soul of sacred places. _

_ Those who are capable of such deeds are not welcome here. You may remember a time half a century ago when others like them arrived at midnight to round up and take away millions of people who never returned. Those who remained consoled themselves with the thought that it could not happen to them, since they weren't Jews. The next night they came again, looking for Communists, and on the third night those who remained had nothing left to console themselves with, because now it was their turn. _

_ Here in Sarajevo, we have been deceived once again. Promises of planes, food, and aid have been broken. Having lied to us, the criminals have continued to destroy Zepa, Sarajevo, Mostar, Jablanica, and Goradze. As well as monuments, they have destroyed history, hope, and goodness. It is their aim to destroy everything, down to the last Bosnian. They will go on destroying until all that remains is evil, hatred, nationalism, and fascism. _

_ May God forgive them. We here, unimportant and naïve as we may be, will try to preserve in our souls at least a trace of the sense of justice that we once had. We Sarajevans have been able to conquer hate. We pride ourselves on being different in that respect. _

_Zlatko Dizdarević_

_Savajevo – A War Journal_

* * *

**Now**

Nearly four in the morning, and the city streets were still populated with cars, with pedestrians. Thinner now that at mid-day, but far from empty. Even on a holiday weekend, the late-nighters had not given up and the early risers were headed to work.

The lights never went out in New York, and the city was never entirely asleep. But it was quiet enough, there by the shore, for Control's purposes.

He walked towards the woman on the bench with his heart racing. From the back, he could see how her hair peeked from beneath her baseball cap. It didn't come quite to her collar. He mourned, for one moment, that smooth, shiny hair that he had tangled his fingers in so many times, that he had buried his face in and gathered her scent. She had been a blond, a brunette, occasionally a red-head. But always the silken length, the warmth and the weight of it.

Gone.

He walked around the bench in a wide circle. He did not want to startle her, though he was certain she'd heard his approach. When he stood in front of her, she kept her head down, her eyes hidden beneath the brim of the cap.

He said, quietly, "I hear you got your hair cut."

"I had lice."

"Charming." He sat next to her on the bench, with a body width between them. At her feet was a circle of dandelion parts, the heads all torn from the stems. "How are you, my love?" he asked.

She was silent for a long time. Then she raised one hand and took the baseball hat off.

Her hair was shockingly short and horribly symbolic.

She would not look at him. Control studied her profile. She was completely still, her expression blank. McCall was right; she had gone phantom. Her body was in New York; her soul was still in the Balkans. And it was broken.

"I can get you out tonight," he said.

Again there was silence. She stared very intently towards the Statue of Liberty, glowing across the placid water. "You know the frog in the boiling water?"

Control nodded. Urban myth, probably: If you put a frog in a pot of water and heated it one degree every hour, the frog could not detect the temperature change and would stay there until the boiling water killed him. "Are you cooked?" he asked.

"If you take the frog out before she's quite dead," Lily answered, "and throw her in a nice cool pond – give her her freedom – the shock will kill her anyhow."

"Ahh." He didn't know if that was technically true, but the allegory made sense. His heart sank. "You want to stay in."

"Yes. No." Her hands stayed in her lap, but her fingers twisted. "I can't go back to the field. I can't, and I don't want to. But I can't leave, either. I can't wake up tomorrow completely free of all of it." She glanced at him, then looked away again. "I'm not making any sense."

"You're saying you need to rest on the desk for a while before you go hopping off into the pond," Control interpreted. "That's easy enough to understand."

"Not for long," Lily promised. "Just … long enough for my skin to cool."

Control nodded. "That can be arranged."

There was a long silence. Lily said, "I love you."

Control wanted to reach for her, to gather her in his arms. He didn't. They were in the open, exposed, and anyone who followed him could easily still be watching. But caution was not what restrained him. He knew where Lily was, in her mind. His touch would not comfort her. It would only make her feel more distant, more alien. Her body was here, her mind still in the war zone. She was struggling. And his touch would only serve to make her more aware of how far away and lost she was.

"Tell me how to help you," he said.

Lily sighed, very softly. "Everyone offers to help. And nothing helps. I can't … I can't … " Tears cracked in her voice. "Just watching, that helps. Watching people be normal. Watching them fight over cabs and primp in front of windows and … that helps. And walking helps. Moving. Not being shot at."

Control stood up. "Come on."

Lily looked at him, and for the first time there was life in her eyes. "Where?"

"Anywhere. No where. Just walk."

"But …" She looked around anxiously. "If someone sees us …"

"They'll think I'm a hard-hearted bastard who wants my debriefing now and won't even let you get any sleep. Come on."

She rose slowly. They walked together along the shore, side by side but not touching, not talking. Not yet. Only walking, only together into the sunrise.

* * *

**Now**

From a half-concealed parking space three hundred yards away, James Simms squinted, puzzled.

He had not meant to follow Control from the airstrip. He wasn't a complete idiot, and he had a pretty good sense of self-preservation. But the spymaster had driven the same direction Simms went to get home. Completely innocent, that he was behind his boss.

Control was much too easy to follow.

Ten minutes into the drive, Simms had made the conscious choice to tail him. He'd dropped back in traffic, missed a light on purpose. The spymaster hadn't noticed. It was all much too easy.

Either Control had known he was there and didn't care, or he was entirely distracted.

Simms knew Control had had a personal hand in the release of the gruesome photos of the gravesite in Srebrenica. But that card had been played now; it shouldn't be worrying him. Or was there something else to come? Where the hell was he going at this hour of the morning?

It entered Simms' memory that Lily Romanov had flown home with Nancy Campbell's body. He'd found it curious, at first. Most of the agents from Bosnia were pulling back to Germany or Hungary. Why was she coming all the way home? But knowing that she had brought back Anne Keller – Anne Keller Kostmayer, and wasn't that a pretty bit of timing? – and most likely the film that was now all over the news, her trip home made sense.

If Control really was having a relationship with the courier, and he was going to meet her now, wouldn't he be a lot more careful about being tailed?

But there they were, Simms thought, sitting on a bench looking at the water. And his interpretation was falling apart.

If your lover has just come back from a war zone, and if she's been witness to the horrors that he'd seen on the television screen, wouldn't you embrace her? You wouldn't, Simms mused, sit on a park bench two feet away from her.

He watched as the courier took off her hat. Even at a distance, he could see how short her hair was. Military regulation short – for a man. What the hell was that all about? Maybe it wasn't her at all. He could only see the back of her head and her shoulders. He was only assuming it was Romanov.

They spoke for a moment or two. He could see their heads moving as they talked. But not their hands. It was a quiet conversation. Control stood up. His contact stood up also and looked around. It was Romanov, after all.

The two began to walk along the river bank, away from him on the pathway. There was still a foot of space between them.

Simms scratched his head. He'd been back and forth since the Fall of the Wall party about his boss and his lead courier. He'd never been able to prove that they were lovers. He'd never been able to disprove it, either. Every time the evidence began to weigh on one side or the other, something else happened to even the scales. After this long, Simms thought, if you can't prove it, you're probably wrong.

If they were lovers, in this situation, they'd be in each other's arms.

If they weren't lovers – what the hell were they?

There was clearly a relationship between them. There had been too many meetings like this, covert, away from the office. But if the relationship was not romantic in nature, what exactly was it?

A sick chill crept up Simms' spine. If she wasn't Control's lover, perhaps she was his mole.

She was only a courier.

But she was smart, observant, and she was everywhere. And how many times had he wondered _why_ she was still only a courier? How many missions and operations had she run for Simms, and then reported under the table to Control? The Old Man knew everything; of course he had a network of spies throughout the Company.

How in the hell had Simms missed it?

But he knew how. It was a classic misdirection. He'd been so busy looking for the sexual angle that he'd missed all the other implications. If Romanov had been a man, he'd have seen her true intent much earlier. But because she was a beautiful woman, he'd assumed that Control's interested was physical.

It had been an idiotic mistake.

The only comfort Simms had was that he had not done anything behind Control's back that was counter to his interests. He had kept his boss informed of his activities, their intent if not the details. He had not been working with those in the Company who were plotting Control's downfall, most notably Jason Masur. Aside from some minor technical issues, Simms was largely blameless. Whatever Control had heard about him was not actionable.

Which was more than he could say for at least three of his colleagues.

Simms took a deep breath. With the Balkan conflict fully enflamed, Control had needed all his people at hand, regardless of their questionable loyalty. If a peace accord was reached, the spymaster might be free to turn his attention to housekeeping matters. It had happened before.

Simms considered himself reasonably safe. Probably. But some of the others …

None of the others were out here watching Control in the middle of the night.

Chilled, Simms rolled up his window, locked his doors, and went home.

It wasn't until he was safe behind his own door that it occurred to Simms that Control might have been so easy to follow on purpose.

* * *

**Now**

Mickey Kostmayer lay on his belly in the brush, panting silently. He could hear his heart pounding, feel the blood rushing to his head, his limbs. He was getting too damn old to run up mountains, he thought. He looked at his watch, listening intently as the seconds ticked by.

Twenty-eight seconds behind him, he heard the first boots on the ground.

Kostmayer grinned. Almost half a minute faster than men half his age? Maybe he wasn't that old after all.

His pursuers slowed, confused. They listened for his movement. He hadn't cared how much noise he'd made running up the mountain; he'd been easy to track. But now he was still, and they didn't know how to find him. Their pursuit became slower, less organized. Though it would be a while before they admitted it, they'd lost him.

Mickey's breathing and heart rate were already nearly back to normal. He relaxed onto the leaves. Being still was hard for new agents to learn, but it was critical. You couldn't run forever, but you could lay still all day long if you worked at it.

Part of the militia chasing him had moved way off to his right. They were splitting up, spreading out. He could move now and pick them off, a few at a time. But there were nearly fifty of them. He wouldn't get them all. So though it was tempting, he lay still.

Be still, and live.

Flies buzzed in the brush a few yards to his right.

Very deliberately, he touched his thumb to the gold ring on his left hand. You promised her you'd live, he reminded himself. He meant to keep that promise.

He refused to speculate about where Lily Romanov had gotten wedding bands.

To the north, he could hear the whine of jet engines, the thump of shells falling. Explosions muffled into thunder by distance and the mountains.

Anne would be back in New York by now. A few more hours, maybe, and her pictures of the mass grave would be all over the papers, all over the news. Maybe they were already out. Maybe this stupid, bloody war had finally started to unravel.

Maybe. Wars could be damned persistent things. Like wildfires, easy to start and hard to stop. And when you'd hosed one down, stomped it out and buried it in sand, you'd turn around and find another already blazing at your back, sometimes from the same sparks.

But _this_ war, this one would be ending. He hoped.

He was sick to death of climbing this damn mountain. Sick of snow and cold, sick of trees and brush and climbing. Sick of rivers clogged with corpses. Sick of stupidity and prejudice and selfishness. Sick of the complete lack of common sense that seemed to grip this whole damn country. But mostly, sick of this mountain.

Something nice and flat, warm and dry next time, he thought. Maybe a nice desert war.

The militia continued to move away. They were following the trail, the game trail, the refugee trail. He'd left it three minutes ago. They weren't going to find him.

The flies continued to buzz industriously. A soft breeze brought a whiff of decomposition.

Mickey raised his head, hoping it wasn't another body. Something gold and white and black was hidden in the brush. Something dead. He looked around, then pushed up to his elbow. Not a human, certainly. It was too small, too hairy. Some kind of animal. From the gentleness of the smell, it had been dead quite a while.

He couldn't hear his pursuers any more. Silently, he rose to his feet and stepped towards the carcass.

The skull had a bullet hole through the center of it. Gold fur with brown spots, downy white underneath, blackened flesh and whitened bones, were all that remained of the Balkan lynx.

* * *

_In my dreams, I walk among the ruins_

_Of the old part of town_

_Looking for a bit of stale bread._

_My mother and I inhale the fumes of gunpowder._

_I imagine it to be the smell of pies, cakes, and kebab._

_A shot rings out from a nearby hill. We hurry._

_Though it's only nine o'clock, we might be hurrying_

_Towards a grenade marked "ours"._

_An explosion rings out in the street of dignity._

_Many people are wounded – _

_Sisters, brothers, mothers, fathers_

_I reach out to touch a trembling, injured hand. _

_I touch death itself._

_Terrified, I realize this is not a dream._

_It is just another day in Sarajevo._

_Edina, 12, from Sarajevo_

_I Dream of Peace – Images of war by children of former Yugoslavia_

**The End**

* * *

**Bibliography**

Dizdarević, Zlatko. Sarajevo – A War Journal. Fromm International. New York. November, 1994.

Drakulić, Slavenka. The Balkan Express – Fragments from the Other Side of the War. W.W. Norton and Company. New York – London. 1993.

Filipovic, Zlata. Zlata's Diary – A Child's Life in Sarajevo. Viking Press, 1994.

Hudis, Peter. "Bosnia in the historic mirror: A commentary." Journal of Political and Military Sociology. Winter, 1996.

I Dream of Peace – Images of war by children of former Yugoslavia. UNICEF/Harper Collins Publishers, 1994.

Max, Arthur. "Dutch Peacekeepers Haunted by Srebrenica." Associated Press. July 11, 2005.

Rohde, David. "Evidence Indicates Bosnia Massacre." The Christian Science Monitor. August 18, 1995.

Rohde, David. "Graves Founds that Confirm Bosnia Massacre." The Christian Science Monitor. November 16, 1995.

Sacco, Joe. Safe Area Gorazde: The War in Eastern Bosnia 1992-95. Fantagraphics Books. January 2002.

Sacco, Joe. War's End: Profiles from Bosnia 1995-1996. Drawn and Quarterly. June 16, 2005.

Sito-Sucic, Daria and Zuvela, Maja. "Bosnian grief, Western regret at Srebrenica." Reuters. July 11, 2005.

St. Vincent Millay, Edna. "Prayer to Persephone."

Van Grieken, George, FSC. "Prayer of Hope." . /pages/prayerofhope

Wood, Nicolas. "Video of Serbs in Srebrenica Massacre Leads to Arrests." New York Times. June 3, 2005.


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